Supernatural: Redux
by catsiel
Summary: John Winchester had another kid. A daughter.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One.**

The day her mother died, her father appeared.

Life's funny that way.

Though, the second she saw the person that belonged in the sole photograph of her parents, she slammed the door in his face. She remembered thinking he could be a stalker – how else would he know where she was staying? Through the door, he told her how he found her – asked around, went to all the local hotels, motels, and inns, how her mother listed him as a last resort emergency contact, how he didn't even know he _had_ a daughter until he got that call, how he drove all the way from Illinois, and how he was not above picking the lock to get in the room.

She had ignored him, but his threat rang true and he had ended up sitting in the loveseat he had dragged next to the bed, where she sat amongst a sea of used tissues. Even in her misery, she remembered admiring his buttery leather jacket, even with all the wear and tear. It looked comfortable.

They sat in silence for ten minutes before he cleared his throat and asked her her name.

Perhaps it was because she'd lost everything in one fell swoop and subconsciously needed someone to hold on to, or perhaps it was due to the fact that she needed to say something – anything – to anyone, that she answered.

It occurred to her just how strange the conversation was, meeting her goddamned father for the first time, and him saying he was sorry about what had happened to her mother – though he couldn't even remember the name of the woman he'd had a child with. It had been all very surreal, and after she'd come to her senses, she had kicked him out.

He was persistent though, much to her surprise. Though she'd known it was her mother's fault for keeping her a secret, she was still angry enough about the fire to take it out on everyone around her. And he was it.

John Winchester.

Scruffy-faced, tall, and _safe_, but closed-off and aloof.

She didn't look like him. Where he was tall, she was short, his hair dark brown, hers black. The only resemblance was in the eyes. And perhaps the bushy eyebrows, but she'd plucked them down the second she learned it was possible.

She remembered John – no, her _father_ – had tried to get her to relocate to some _Pastor's_ place, but she refused. Vehemently. He had frowned, as if he wasn't used to people disobeying his orders, and started half-yelling that she couldn't stay by herself – she was only sixteen, goddamnit, and how did she manage to rent out a room for herself, being only goddamned sixteen and all.

That was when he made his decision. He'd stay in New York, rent a place for them, and then they'd decide what to do. After all, she was too young to live by herself, and she apparently had no friends she could stay with, so the only option left was for him to stay. He hadn't looked very happy about it, but he was a good actor.

Two weeks in – two weeks spent barely speaking to each other, because after all, they were still strangers – he left on a "business trip," and returned three days later, bruised and bloodied. That was the night he told her about the thing that killed her mother, about everything out there in the dark, and about what he did for a living.

She thought it was the drugs talking. He had refused to go to the hospital, resorting to giving her step-by-step directions on how to patch him back up. She was pretty bad at it at first, and had to give him a few more pain pills than directed.

She was surprised at her own composure – though much, much more surprised at his.

The next day, he started lining the windows and doors with salt, and instructed her to check on the lines every few hours or so.

She continued thinking he was crazy, a crazy man who stole other people's credit cards, until she saw an evil spirit with her own eyes. In the days following that eye-opener, she pestered John to teach her all the odds and ends of his "job." He had adamantly refused, cursing the fact that she'd been exposed to it, but was left with nothing to say when she pointed out that something came for her mother, and how was he to know it wasn't going to come for her?

John had looked at her strangely, shook his head and muttered something about his offspring, but complied, albeit reluctantly.

Three months later, she knew a little bit about everything, and found that she was partial to knives and all things sharp. There was nothing like father-daughter bonding over guns, weapons, and how-tos regarding all things supernatural.

She had felt like a whole different person. She was feeling less and less her mother's daughter, and more and more her father's. And she hated it. But, it needed to happen, and even at the tender age of sixteen, she understood.

During the entire time, John came and went, leaving her to lay down her own salt lines, to practice her Latin, to practice shooting cans in the back alley, and, of course, to go to school. She skipped classes sometimes, when he wasn't around to make sure she was learning her calculus, and burned the notes from the attendance office before he could see them.

Then a month after her seventeenth birthday, he left without saying a word. The only things he left behind were a few guns and ammo, her favorite knife, some money, his car – he took the truck – and a note that read _I'm going after it. Call this number in case of emergencies. _

During that last year, he had allowed her to tag along on his hunts – on weekends or holidays only, whenever he was around – and was very surprised to see just how fast a learner she really was. Little did he know, she'd been driving up and down the coast working her own jobs. But then again, he had been oddly preoccupied about something. What, he never did say, even after all her pestering.

So after it was clear he wasn't returning, she packed her bags and drove off. There was no reason for her to stay – her mother was ashes, her father had disappeared, and thanks to her aversion of social lives and thus a lack of friends, there was nothing holding her back.

Everything went fine, her on the road, salting and burning her way across the country several times, until now. Eleven months, three days, and five hours – give or take a five hours – after she peeled out of the driveway, she finally met something she couldn't handle on her own.

They say when you're about to die, your whole life flashes before your eyes. Well, that adage would only be true if her life before her mother's death was nothing but an illusion. Sprawled flat on her face, all that flashed before her eyes were spirits, poltergeists, not-so-urban-legends, and everything else that lived in the dark.

She could almost feel the blood pouring out of her stomach and legs, where that goddamned creature had not-so-ceremoniously ripped at, trying to drag her into its lair. Though, she couldn't really tell where the blood ended and where the mud began.

At least the sun was coming up. From what she'd found out from her research, the thing preferred to hunt during the night, and that gave her about ten to twelve hours maximum to get out of this hellhole. Unless she passed out before she could develop a plan. And what plan would she come up with anyway? Hell, she was hungry, cold, and fucking exhausted. All she wanted to do was put her head down into the mud and sleep, and the fact that mud was soft didn't help either. If she had been lying on concrete, her bruised ribs would have made sure that she stayed awake, but she wasn't.

Then, cursing her slow mind, she reached into her pockets and slowly pulled out her cell phone. _Call this number in case of emergencies._ She had programmed the number into her phone, set at speed dial #1, because it would have been sad to have no numbers in her phone at all. Plus, it made dialing it all the more easier. Yeah, she definitely prided herself on her thinking, especially now.

The phone was muddied and slightly battered, but it still worked, as evidenced by the dial tone.

"This is Dean, leave a message."

She groaned, and pressed redial. Again, and again, so many times she'd lost count – or, rather, her wavering state of consciousness refused to count past six.

"What?" a voice barked. "This better be good."

"Hi," she said drowsily, unsure if anyone had actually picked up.

"Not interested in whatever you're selling," he snapped before hanging up.

Her fingers were now familiar with the redial button, and pressed it again automatically.

"Listen –" he started, and even in her state of mind, she could tell he was pissed.

"Help," she managed, dropping the phone into the mud by her head. She moved her head slightly to the left, resting her ear on the phone.

"Who is this?"

"Help me," she pleaded. If she weren't bleeding half to death, face down in fucking mud, she would have kicked herself into unconsciousness for sounding so needy, so pleading, so not herself.

A pause. Then, in a completely different tone of voice, "Where are you?"

* * *

"Fuck," Dean cursed, throwing a few bills on the table as he rose.

So much for spending some time at the casinos, he thought, glancing towards the strip. And the decision that took him days to make? Gone out the door, just like that. So much for checking in on Sammy, and so much for attempting to patch things over between them.

He knew he should have ignored the call – all seventeen of them – but his phone was the only connection he had to his father, and the unfamiliar number could very well have been from his dad. But, unless his father had inhaled some helium since the last time they've spoken, or had a sex-change, that was highly unlikely. Plus, it'd been months since the last time Dean had heard from him, and he wasn't going to be calling out of the blue. Hell, if it weren't for Dean's persistence, they probably wouldn't have spoken at all since a few months after the college debacle. Okay, so he wouldn't have picked up, if not for the dirty looks the other customers were giving him. Apparently they didn't appreciate his taste in music as much as they should have.

And now, he was driving straight out of Nevada – he was several hours from Stanford, but judging from the girl's tone of voice, she didn't have the time to wait for him to stalk his brother – to fucking _Bitterroot Valley__, Montana__. _

He floored it down the empty interstate, music turned up high. Traveling the country by himself was lonely, which was probably why he preferred the company of beautiful women. Or so he liked to reason. Women and music. And his car. That's all he needed. Right.

All he wanted to do was look at his brother and see for himself that Sam was all right. It had been nearly two years since he last spoke with his brother – of course, he'd occasionally send Sam a few postcards from wherever in the country he was, not detailing his activities, but just keeping the connection open. It wasn't enough.

Driving along deserted highways by himself, he'd pretty much mastered the art of self-psychoanalysis. He just wasn't too good at offering up advice. So when it got to that part, he relied on his other talent – that of ignoring whatever was going on in his head. It was a tough job, but, like hunting, had to be done.

* * *

After the guy on the phone seemed to get the message, she had laid there, feeling completely useless. Out of complete boredom – and as a result of the numbness that caused her to feel nothing at all – she had attempted to slither out of the mud, turned over – slowly, and propped her head on a rock. Not the most comfortable position or placement, but better than nothing.

She'd passed out right there for god knows how long, and came to thinking about her mother's cooking and Chinese food in general. What she wouldn't give for even a MSG-laden meal at the moment…

Instead, she resorted to counting the seconds that ticked by.

_Five hundred forty nine, five hundred fifty, five fifty one, five fifty two, five fifty…_fuck.

She realized, watching a hook-shaped cloud float on by above the ponderosa pines, that she probably should have stuck it out and graduated from high school. Her grades were always top of the class, but she didn't care about much after the fire except killing whatever deserved to die – or stay dead. And now, she couldn't even count up to a thousand without losing her place. Awesome.

She knew she should have just given in and passed out yet again, but paranoia about the unseen and un-human trumped everything. Well, that, and the bugs. She pressed down on her wounds, because that was her father's number two rule to medical emergencies. _Always apply pressure, and you'll thank yourself later._

Even after living with him for about a year – though the days he was actually there only added up to a few months – she didn't know much about him. All she knew was that he was a Marine and a hunter, that he hated the fact that he had to teach her almost everything he knew, and that he was a pretty rotten cook and loved her pot roast.

Even though he wasn't around much, it seemed as though he wanted her to remain an innocent eight year old girl, which she thought was ironic, considering the fact that he didn't even know she existed until she was sixteen.

The time they spent together mainly consisted of shooting practice, hunting, Latin lessons, and sitting around the dining room table, eating the meals she cooked up and watching Jeopardy.

Perhaps it was a bad idea, but she was bored out of her mind and she stopped feeling her injuries and pain hours ago, and tried to get up – with the ultimate goal of walking her way out of the forest.

"Mother_fucker_," she bit out before catching herself on the trunk of a tree, several feet from her rock of a pillow. Apparently, her movements had awoken her nerve endings, completely bypassing pins and needles.

She figured she looked like any other treehugger, so she stayed in that position. She was convinced she was delirious – or somewhat insane – when she thought she heard the tinny strains of Final Countdown coming from the tree.

And then she heard it again. The strange snarling and heavy breathing that indicated the presence of the Wendigo, Windigo, Witiko, Wihtikow, or however the hell people wanted to call it these days. Then she saw it. Gaunt, emaciated, paper thin skin stretched tight across its extremely visible bones, and deathly grey. It was a walking skeleton reeking of guts and death, and it was looking straight into her eyes.

She knew, from all her readings, that Wendigos' strengths and skills – it made her sick to think in terms of their "skills" – varied, depending on age and ability, and was thankful this one wasn't fast as lightning as most were these days. It also wasn't as strong as the average creature, which made her think the Wendigo had once been a woman cannibal. She almost laughed at the thought that _she_ was stereotyping women as the weaker gender, but the look in those sunken eyes cut that short.

It even fought like a woman, digging its nails into her skin like they were engaging in a terribly violent one-sided catfight.

She screamed as she held onto the trunk with all her might, even as the thing grabbed her legs and attempted to rip her apart. In her moment of panic, she thought of nothing but how she'd have to once again buy new clothes, and how it'd probably be better if she just did the job naked. Though, clothes did offer a layer of protection. But the thought of replacing them after every single damn hunt pissed her off.

There really was nothing like feeling a papery skeleton grab hold on your legs like they were buckets of gold.

It was getting angry. Baring its teeth, it yanked one last time, and her arms finally gave away. She almost cried out as her chest hit the exposed roots with a loud thump, something her ribs surely appreciated. God, she hated nature. So much so that she didn't think twice about reaching into her pocket for her almost-forgotten flare gun and using it on the thing in such close proximity to dry, brittle trees. _Wildfires can suck it_. Hell, the whole place could burn up for all she cared.

The Wendigo shrieked until it fell to the forest floor in ashes. It was almost too easy, but she learned to take what was given, and let her head fall to the ground with a sigh, trying to ignore the white-hot burning sensation from her new and reopened gashes.

War wounds. She'd been proud of her first scar, just above her knee, but these injuries were becoming far too repetitive and frequent.

She realized, as she closed her eyes, that Europe was still singing along in the background like a soundtrack to a bad movie.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two.**

Dean frowned. He pressed the redial button and strained to listen, but all he heard was the crunching of twigs and leaves under his boots, and birds. He wondered, yet again, why he had dropped everything to drive to Montana. All because of one phone call? Or rather, seventeen? It could have been a persistent prank-caller, for all he knew, and if that theory proved correct, he just wasted money, gasoline, and time that he could have spent either spying on his brother, or gambling.

Well, too late now, Dean thought. If the girl was in trouble, he'd find her and save her – swoop in like a hunter in biker boots. But if she was indeed a prankster, well, she'd never see what was coming to her.

He had tracked her cell phone signal to the edge of a patch of forest several miles from Hamilton. Not that it narrowed it down much. He'd been in the Bitterroot Valley area quite a few years back, with Sam and their dad. They were called in by an old acquaintance of John's, something about a haunted house. John did the hunting, while Dean was forced to stay back and babysit Sam. Well, all the babysitting that he did sure did its job. Somehow, Dean had portrayed himself as the model of what-not-to-be, and off Sammy went to college.

And, apparently, self-analysis didn't stop when he was off the road.

"Come on, damnit," Dean swore, walking into a small clearing, cell phone still out. Then, sniffing, he headed to his right. He felt like a dog sniffing for bombs, but hey, whatever worked – and, at least no one was around to witness this scene.

Smoke. The acrid smell of flare guns. A smell he'd be hard pressed to forget, considering the first time he used one of those things, he'd almost burned his fingers off.

He redialed again, just as the robotic voice told him to leave a message after the beep, and almost grinned when he heard some music coming from the trees.

"Hey, you there?" he asked, his voice hovering below a yell, so as to not disturb anything that was residing in the forest. _Never yell unless you have to_. That's what his father had said. Repeatedly. _You never know what you might be waking up_. He and his brother would have taken more heed to it, had John not repeated that bit of wisdom every time the two of them fought – in their rooms, in diners, the back of the Impala, everywhere. Dean had soon learned that with this particular piece of advice, there was tremendous leeway - except when he was in an unfamiliar forest, searching for a possibly wounded woman who just happened to have his phone number.

The toe of his right boot caught on a maze of exposed roots, but he righted himself just in time to avoid falling in a pool of mud. As he brushed bits of bark and soil off his palms, he spotted the person he was most likely looking for.

And her ringtone. God, the ringtone.

"Hey," Dean said, bending on one knee to check her vitals. "You all right?"

_Figures,_he thought. They never are. He did a quick inventory of her apparent wounds – several parallel gashes on her abdomen, more on her legs, some bruising, and a cut on her forehead. Deciding to get her to the Impala – and to a motel – before doing a more thorough check, he scooped her into his arms – thankfully, she weighed almost nothing – and booked it for his car.

She had lost a lot of blood, that much was for sure. Nothing too life-threatening though, from the looks of it. He had attempted to clean the wounds before stitching up the bigger, deeper slashes. Looking at her now, sprawled on her back on the puce bedsheet, pale skin and dark circles under her eyes, he guessed she couldn't be much older than fourteen. Fifteen, tops.

Where were her parents? And what were they thinking, letting her go around hunting _evil things_? He hadn't missed the flare gun on the ground, or the small assortment of weapons on her body – the dagger in her boot, the gun on her belt, as well as a pocket knife and a Swiss Army knife. What was it with hunters? So obsessed with the job that they forgot their kids were still just _kids_? He didn't resent his own childhood much – he was simply indignant that his brother had no choice in the matter, until he was eighteen, at least, and even then, it was an ultimatum. No real choice, if you thought about it.

Dean settled into the loveseat after he was sure the only thing left to do was wait for her to wake up. The man at the front desk of the Motel 8 – a clear rip-off of Motel 6 – had responded to Dean's request for a double room by claiming that Motel 8s "don't do doubles." Whatever that meant, Dean didn't even want to know. But at least they were generous enough to adorn their rooms with overstuffed loveseats and tiny televisions.

Certain that whatever channels the little thing picked up would be full of static, he reached for her phone instead, curious to find out just who she was. _You're not snooping,_he told himself as he wiped off some dried mud, _she dropped it, you picked it up, and now you're simply looking in it to see who you can call to pick her up._ Yeah.

He clicked through the menus, and ended up staring at his own number – the only number stored in the phone – listed under "EMERGENCIES ONLY." Strange. Maybe he'd worked with her folks? But even if that was the case, why would they give her _his_ number instead of John's? After all, John Winchester was the master hunter. And why was his number the only one in there?

_Well, that was helpful_, he thought, setting the useless phone on the nightstand. He studied her face - perhaps he'd met her before? Nah, he would have remembered…maybe. It was no secret that he had a soft spot for what Sam called his BABs – John always figured Dean had a weird obsession with Barbra Streisand – but this girl, from what he could tell, didn't seem to be fully Asian. Or busty, for that matter. _God, she's_fifteen, _Winchester. Get it the fuck together._ Shame.

As if right on cue, the girl coughed.

She was thirsty and hot. Or cold. Hell, she couldn't make up her mind.

"Hey," said an unfamiliar voice, "Drink some water."

Opening her eyes a crack, she peered at the man sitting beside her. "You did this, didn't you?" she croaked, poking herself in the stomach.

He glanced at the white gauze he'd used to wrap her up, and nodded. "It's a little rough, but –"

"More like a little _tight_," she responded, leaning back on the bed as she took the bottle of water from him.

"Well, I'm sorry," he replied, "it's not like you were awake to –"

"Who are you, anyway?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him. He didn't look like a serial killer, though he was slightly scruffy. But then again, from all the late night television she'd watched, serial killers often sport soft-as-babies'-bottoms faces. And they probably wouldn't waste their time to stitch their victims back up. "Christo?"

"You sure like to interrupt people, don't you? And no, I'm not a demon, sorry."

She shrugged, pulling at the gauze. "If you woke up in a strange room, with a strange person, wouldn't you want to know who he was?"

Dean smirked. "Sometimes a little secrecy is a good thing."

"Who are you?" she repeated, ignoring his comment. "And why is it so hot in here?"

"You called _me_," Dean said, frowning as he reached over to place a hand on her forehead. "Your wounds shouldn't be infected. Are you sick?"

"Not that I'm aware of. So you're the 'in case of emergencies' person, huh?" She kicked the blanket off her body, winced, and stopped moving her legs mid-motion. "I'm Annabel. Thanks for coming to get me in there. I'm guessing you're a hunter?"

He nodded. "Dean. I tried to call your parents, but your phone seems to be lacking some numbers. Is there anyone –"

"Nope, it's just me," she replied, slowly bringing her legs to the edge of the bed.

"I wouldn't move around if I were you," Dean warned, holding an arm out, just in case.

"I don't know about you, but I'm not one to wet to lay around in a puddle of my own –"

"Fine. Your legs are pretty scratched up," he said, getting up to help. He wasn't really sure how to go about doing it – after all, he was a hunter, not a personal caretaker – but he steadied her by placing one hand beneath her left elbow, and the other around her right.

She sighed. "Well damn, I guess I can't wear skirts for a while."

"Do you _have_ any skirts?" he asked critically, definitely not pegging her for a girly girl. After all, her current outfit didn't really scream pink flowers and frilly lace. "That reminds me. Just how old are you? Because you certainly don't look a day over fifteen, tops, and you definitely shouldn't be –"

"_Fifteen?!_" she screeched – as well she could have screeched at least, given her current condition. It came out more like a pained, horrified gasp. The numerous cuts – and bandages – on her legs were making it very difficult to move about as freely as she would have like, and, well, they fucking hurt.

Dean paused, stopping halfway to the bathroom. She twisted her head to glare at him, temporarily forgetting the reason she was up in the first place.

"Well?" he asked expectantly, still holding onto her elbows like an idiot.

"I'm eighteen," she replied, throwing him a dirty look as she turned her attention back to the door beside the kitchenette.

Dean felt like he was walking an old woman across the street. A very cranky old woman with a very young face. "Sorry. You just look…young."

"It's all right, I guess," she replied, pushing the door open. "At least you didn't say I look like a twelve-year old." She grinned, much to his surprise, and closed it in his face.

_What was it with women and their mood swings?_ Dean thought, perplexed. He waited beside the door, making sure that she didn't slip and fall and pull out all her stitches.

Inside the bathroom, she gripped the sides of the ceramic sink and smirked. Men. She glanced up at her reflection, and recoiled. _Goodness gracious_. Though Dean had done a fairly decent job of wiping the mud off her face, she was still grimy and streaked with brown. And her hair. God, her hair. The elastic band had fallen off somewhere, and now her somewhat greasy hair was matted to her head, also caked with mud. _No wonder he thought you were a kid_.

She wasn't one to spend time on men and all that relationship crap, but _god_, that man out there was…_beautiful_, what with his chiseled features and that voice of his… She wasn't even sure if he was more "ruggedly good-looking," or just plain angelic. Maybe a hybrid of the two.

"Hey, you all right in there?" Dean called through the door, rapping twice on the door.

"Yep, just doing my business," she replied, turning on the faucet. The water ran out slightly beige, but she didn't care. Minutes later, her face was clean and her hair was in better condition. There wasn't much else she could do but rinse it through with a little bit of water, which in itself was a difficult task, her wounds and bandages kept her from bending forward.

She emerged from the bathroom several minutes later, cleaner, but her face was twisted in pain. "You got any Tylenol or something?"

He nodded, and after he made sure she wasn't going to fall over the ruin his gauzy masterpiece, he rummaged through his half-open first aid kit. After a few seconds, he produced several pills and handed them to her. "Pain killers, and these are for the blood loss."

She took them, but glanced up and said, "Can I get another bottle of water? Pill swallowing definitely isn't my strong point."

Dean raised an eyebrow, but headed towards the dingy green refrigerator. "You should probably work on that. It'll come in handy."

"I know. But my…father always cut them down into little pieces to make it easier," she replied. "I'd have done it myself, but he didn't want me handling knives when I was sick. Really oddly protective, when it came down to it."

He placed the second water bottle on the table beside the bed, and returned to his seat, figuring there wasn't much else to do. "Where's he now?" _Oh, good job, Winchester. He's probably dead._

She shrugged. "Just took off one day. Left me with some necessities. And your number, actually."

"What's his name?" Dean asked curiously. He couldn't think of anyone besides Bobby Singer, but he sincerely doubted that Bobby would let his kid run around the world by herself. Plus, he'd never 'take off' like that.

She finished chewing on her pill and gulped down half the bottle before replying. "John Winchester."

She watched him shoot out of the loveseat like it had turned into a throne of burning coal from hell itself. "What's –"

"Christo," Dean hissed immediately, face hardening.

"What? Yeah, I know I don't look much like a Winchester, whatever the hell they look like. He wasn't around when I was born, so I got my mom's name. It's pretty sad, because she named me after her favorite poem. Anyway, I'm stuck with Annabel Lee," she rambled, hoping to dispel the strange look on his face.

"You're lying," he growled, keeping a firm grip on the gun in his jacket. He didn't know who this girl thought she was – or even _what_ she was, but one thing was clear. She was lying. John Winchester didn't even have the time to look after him and Sam, and yet he had time to father another kid and not only that, but he took the time to _crush pills?_ Hell, it used to take Sammy longer than usual to swallow basic vitamins, and all John did was order him to just _do it_.

But she wasn't a demon, and true, the holy water he'd used to wipe off her wounds did nothing. Maybe a shapeshifter? But why would a shapeshifter carry an assortment of silver knives and daggers on its body? His mind was racing with a bunch of questions, and he mentally kicked himself for even considering that the girl was speaking the truth. True, his dad was a man after all, and men have needs. Clearly. But the idealistic part of Dean – which should have died long ago – refused to believe that his father would even _look_ at anyone that wasn't Mary Winchester.

She looked at him, suddenly alert. The remaining pills were forgotten in her hand. "You know him." When he didn't answer, she frowned. "Hey, you look…" Her sentence trailed off as she focused her attention on retrieving something from her back pocket.

Dean felt like his head was going to explode. You don't just get a random call from someone pleading for help, only to find out that that someone is your fucking half-sister. Though part of him knew it wasn't a coincidence, it was too damn _surprising_, to say the fucking least. And he didn't like the unexpected. Something _had_ to be wrong.

He was too busy _thinking. God,_he seethed, _what's happened to me? What happened to shoot-first-ask-questions-later?_He'd gotten much more trigger-happy since the most recent stage of the continual demise of his family, and now what? He was too busy _thinking_ to act. _Why don't you just fucking go to school and become a psychologist instead? Follow in Sammy's footsteps now, get practically disowned by Dad._

He didn't even register that he was staring straight at a photograph of his father. "Where the fuck did you get this?" Too late to play it cool, man. You've already lost it.

She glanced up at him uneasily. "My mom gave it to me. When I was six." Something about the man scared her, and though she wasn't thinking it at the moment, she knew that even with her strategically placed weapons, she was no match for him. And hell, they were so strategically placed she couldn't even reach them if she wanted to, not with her mummified body. So, she let him grab the yellowing photo out of her hand without a peep.

It sure was him, all right. John Winchester, in all his plaid glory. He wasn't smiling and his face was bruised, but it didn't lessen the blow any. Dean remembered that particular shirt – how could he not? They had to burn it after a bad hunt – too bloodied to salvage, and too bloodied for little Sammy to see.

So focused he was on his father that he didn't even notice the other subject in the photograph. A pretty Asian woman, all dark hair and pale skin. She looked happy. Dean closed his eyes for a split second as he turned it over. _April & John, Oct 1984._1984. He was five. Sammy, not even one and a half.

"Yeah," Annabel murmured, as if to herself. "You definitely look like him. Who are you?"

God, he needed Sammy. He would know what to do.

"Dean," he said slowly, his mouth dry. "Dean Winchester."

"Oh," she replied, relieved that he was looking less murderous by the second. "So you're related to my dad?"

"Am I," Dean snorted humorlessly. "Well, nice to meet you, _Annabel_, you've apparently got two brothers in the world." He didn't even want to think about how many others there could have been.

She blanched, still clutching the pills in her left hand. "You're…you're my brother?"

He laughed grimly. "Looks like it."

"But…he never said anything –"

"Yeah, well, that's _John_ for you," he said, flinging the photo onto her lap. He knew he was acting like a bitter little bitch, but what else could be expected? What, was he supposed to hug her and tell her that he'd always wanted a little sister?

She picked it up by the corner, gingerly. Dean Winchester. She had relatives. A_brother_, for christsakes. And she had been thinking some very un-sisterly thoughts about him. God.

"Wait. You said two brothers."

"Sam," he replied shortly, turning his back towards her to stare out the window.

"Where is he now?" she asked timidly, unsure if she was hitting another sore spot.

"Stanford," came the answer.

Holy crap. It was too much to take. A minute ago, she only had a dead mother and a vanished father. Now, apparently, she had one brother that could give Mr. America a run for his money, and another that probably scored a perfect sixteen-hundred on the SATs.

"So um," she started, trying to relieve the room of the uncomfortable silence, "where's Dad?"

_Where's Dad?_ Dean almost rolled his eyes at the innocence exuding from her voice. He turned his attention back towards her, and realized – unwillingly – that she was still only a kid. "When did you start?"

Her brows furrowed. "Hunting, you mean? A few months after my mother died. Early 2001."

That was the year Sammy left for college. John had disappeared for months at a time that year. Dean always thought it was because he just didn't want to see Sam preparing to go to college against his wishes. After all, if you're not there to see it, it's not really happening, right? But now he knew better.

"So he stayed with you, huh?"

She nodded. "Rented out a place near my school. We stayed till about a year ago."

"How did your mom die?"

"Burned up. They said it was an electrical shortage, but I think Dad had other ideas."

It was all too much of a coincidence


	3. Chapter 3

_Hi everyone! This chapter isn't my best (or longest), but I just wanted to get something out before I let too much time pass. I'm honestly just waiting for a way to skip a year or so in the story and start writing from a little before the beginning of the series. I hope it's not just me, but I love episodic fics, and I'll probably end up using the transcripts quite extensively. But then again, I often veer from my planned path. lol. ANYWAY, I'm rambling now. Enjoy! [[oh, and p.s. I love comments! positive, negative, suggestions, how you'd like to see the story go, etcccc]]_

* * *

**Chapter Three.**

She chewed absently on some ice as she watched Dean throw his cell phone through the crack in the backseat window.

It'd been nearly three days since she found out she had a brother, and damn if they'd had a decent conversation since then. Though she was the biggest introvert she'd ever encountered, awkward silences always made her spew out nonsensical phrases. So, after uttering a few embarrassing statements, she had forced herself to keep quiet, focusing instead on picking away at her bandages.

At least he didn't seem to be pissed off anymore – not like he had been the first night, and definitely not like he'd been during the first message he left for John.

She wrinkled her nose and slurped up the last of her water, hoping the waitress would take note and come running with refills. John Winchester. It was weird. Sometimes she'd think of him as her dad, sometimes she'd speak of him as her dad, but behind it all, he was still just plain old John Winchester, absent father – to all of his children, apparently – and hunter extraordinaire.

She raised her eyebrow as she watched Dean turn up his never-before-seen charm on the waitress. Turns out the waitress was too busy to notice her empty glass. Figures.

It was odd having someone around – especially an older, self-assigned authority figure. If he hadn't been around to force her to stay in bed for the past few days, she never would have. So, okay, fine, maybe having an authority figure around was a good idea.

She was never really close to her mother. Never did much together except cook and eat, but that seemed like enough. Her mother was always busy working, and when she wasn't working, she was cleaning. And when Annabel wasn't at school, she was holed up in the library or walking around town by herself. Perhaps it wasn't the storybook life everyone wanted, but they were content. What else did parents do with their kids anyway?

Sometimes she wondered if something was wrong with her. If it weren't for the countless times she'd cried during movies, she'd assume she was missing some critical emotion gene. If there is such a thing, anyway. Maybe she just didn't like people. Animals were fine, and she was pretty sure she loved her daggers – and hell, she cried during movies. Movies. Not just the really sad ones either.

Pathetic.

"Had enough water?" Dean asked wryly, slipping into the seat he'd vacated minutes ago.

"You got her number?" she returned, raising her eyebrow.

He shot her a "what do you take me for" look and tapped his pocket with more of a smile than she'd ever seen from him. Actually, it was more of a grin. A debauched grin.

She rolled her eyes, spooned up some of the ice left in the bottom of the glass, and chewed. "So he didn't pick up?"

"He never does," Dean replied, eyes hardening for a split second.

True. Sometimes it seemed like it was easier to get in touch with God. And that was obviously impossible, because, at least in her mind, there was no such thing. It wasn't even because of all the ghosts and terrible things she'd seen. She just didn't believe. Everything she'd done for herself was exactly that. The results of her own actions – or actions of others. Sure, she was probably humbler and more modest than the average person, but hey, credit where credit's due. Anyway, even if heaven and hell were real, there never really was a question as to where she'd end up. So why even bother?

"Look, I know you don't like me – and that's fine. We can just go about living our own lives like these past few days never happened," she said, hoping the awkwardness that she felt didn't show. The truth was, she didn't want to part ways, not really. Though she'd be the first to say she preferred being by herself, sometimes people just get lonely. And it'd be lovely to have a tall muscular guy on the road with her, because honestly, Backwoods, USA could get really, really fucking creepy. Not to mention the shady roadside motels which she had no choice but to stay in. But men aren't the only ones with pride.

It took Dean a moment to respond. It was only a few seconds, but a whole slew of emotions passed through his features. He finally settled on a determined scowl. "Sorry, can't do that."

"Why the hell not?" she countered, though relieved. She couldn't understand the man – he clearly didn't want to be here, and yet he wouldn't leave. Talk about a major sense of duty.

"Because now that I know you exist, I can't let you run around by yourself. Hell, you're not even legal," he replied with what could almost pass as a scoff.

"Your apple pie," the waitress smiled down at Dean, setting a slice of pie the size of an average-sized face in front of him. "Enjoy."

He grinned. "Oh, I will. Trust me."

"Would you like more water?"

"Yes please," Annabel responded, still frowning over Dean's comment.

As soon as their waitress filled her glass, Annabel turned to him and scowled. "It's not my fault I look like a kid, all right? So quit it."

"Well, sorry to break it to you, _Anna_, but you _are_ young," he replied, tipping his fork towards her, a piece of pie crust stuck on the prongs.

"Don't call me that."

He shrugged. "What should I call you then? Since it seems like we're going to be stuck with each other for a while, and Annabel's irritating to say all the time. It's either Anna, or Belle. Somehow I don't see you as the latter."

She huffed, but didn't argue. He certainly was being talkative today, and she wasn't about to ruin his seemingly good mood over something so trivial. "Why are we stuck with each other?"

"Like I said, I can't let you run around by yourself anymore," he replied reluctantly. "Dad would be pissed otherwise."

"You really don't have to play the older brother. I've pretty much been by myself my whole life. I don't need –"

"Where was your mom?" Dean asked, mouth full of pie.

"Working, busy."

"Oh. Well, regardless. You've _clearly_ been doing fine by yourself. So fine that you had to call me seventeen times asking for help."

She could feel her face warm. "Yeah, well, if you picked up the first time, I wouldn't have had to call so many times."

She felt like they were a pair of bickering children. It didn't do much to support her "I am not young" argument.

"Right," Dean smirked, knowing he had her where he wanted her. "You've got to stop drinking so much water though," he said as she once again resorted to chomping on the remaining ice. "Don't think that I'm going to stop my car every half-hour so you could go to the bathroom."

"Your car?"

He lifted his eyebrow. "You think I'm going to be seen in yours?"

"There is nothing wrong with my car."

"It's an old _Volkswagen_," he intoned, as though the very word implied it was crap.

"John bought it for me."

"Well, his taste has clearly gone downhill since the last time I saw him," Dean said lightly.

They sat in silence as he finished off his pie. She busied herself with pilfering his glass of water. And even though he didn't acknowledge it, he definitely noticed. There's really no such thing as an unobservant hunter. Unless you count the dead ones.

"This is going to suck, isn't it?"

He glanced at her, wiping at his mouth with the napkin. "It doesn't have to. We work together. Plus, it's always smarter to hunt in twos." He must have noticed the face she made, because he added, "As you clearly demonstrated a few days ago."

"It was the first time in years," she replied, wrinkling her forehead. "Since we're capable of having something of a normal conversation now, you're going to have to stop throwing that in my face all the time."

He ignored her. Pointedly.

"Okay, fine," she snapped, finishing up his – now her – glass of water.

"Pushover."

"What?"

"I said, you want some pie?"

* * *

After lunch, Dean had set about selling her car - without her full consent, but nothing ever seemed to deter him from doing what he wanted. Except, of course, if there were lives at stake, or if his dad put his foot down.

He wanted to leave the battered old thing in the motel parking lot, but figured he might as well try and get some money for it. Turns out there were plenty of teenagers willing to shell out their entire savings for anything on four wheels. It felt strange, receiving money for something relatively legal. Dean didn't like it.

He also didn't like the fact that he had to, once again, be the big brother. Though she clearly gave him a way out back in the diner – and though he certainly wanted to take her up on it – he couldn't. It just wasn't him to shirk off responsibilities like that – _thanks Dad_.

Over the last few days, it crossed his mind that maybe he missed being a big brother. Maybe he missed having someone looking up to him – or maybe he just missed having the responsibility of making sure someone else was all right all the time. Missing something was different from _liking_ something, right?

Okay, so maybe he was just plain sadistic.

He felt like he was falling back into the comfortable niche he'd carved up for himself years before. Willingly.

_God_, he groaned, _next thing you know, I'll be the stay-at-home dad. _

Really, though, she wasn't _that_ bad. There was really nothing he could do about the situation – other than be thankful that she was past the whole teenage angst period, because no matter how sadistic he thought himself to be, dealing with an angsty Sammy was more than he could take. And girls. Girls were far worse.

Dean dug his cell phone out of his pocket, and sat in the front seat, thinking. It wasn't the first time in the last few days that he considered calling his brother. He would want to know. Well, maybe he really _wouldn't_, but he would. It was weird logic.

_Ok_, he thought, _if I call and he doesn't pick up, then I've already done my part. Not my fault he never answers his goddamn phone. _

His hesitation irritated the fuck out of him, but who the hell tells someone that his father had another kid with someone else. Over the phone?

He pressed speed dial #2 - #1 being his dad, but seeing as how neither of them every seemed to pick up, he should just do away with speed dial – and waited. Sure enough, _Hey, it's Sam. I'm not around right now, but leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible! _Yeah, right, Dean scoffed. ASAP my ass. He didn't stay on the line long enough to hear the beep.

"Ready to go," Annabel announced, sticking her head through the open window before she pulled the door open. She stashed her backpack under her feet, and settled into the passenger seat, watching him expectantly.

"What?"

"You look out of it."

"I'm not _out of it_," he replied as he started the car. "You sure you don't want to sit in the back?"

"I'm short. I don't need much space."

"Don't let me hear you complaining then."

She lifted her left eyebrow, accepting his not-so-silent challenge.

"And don't even think about touching the radio," he warned, turning onto the road that would eventually lead them to the interstate.


	4. Chapter 4

_Ugh, I hate this. I wish I could skip the getting-to-know-each-other part, but that'd be forcing it. Though, I think I'm already forcing it a bit. Anyway, thanks for reading! =)_

* * *

**Chapter Four**

It wasn't until they were well out of Montana that she realized Dean probably wasn't concerned about legroom when he mentioned she should sit in the back.

Leg space be damned, her bandages were itching to be peeled off – and _have_ been itching for hours. And god, did they _itch_. It was easy to distract herself at first, but after a few hours, fields, mountains, and shrubbery all blended together.

She peered at him through her peripheral vision and repositioned herself for the fourth time in minutes. He didn't seem to notice, too busy tapping out the beat to the music and focusing on the winding road.

She had to admit, she was a bit apprehensive when he reached over her seat to dig through his _cassette _collection that he kept locked up in the glove compartment. She never really kept up with technology, or music, for that matter, but she was certain that cassettes had given way to CDs _years_ ago. But, the music wasn't all that bad, so she couldn't complain.

"Who's this?"

He glanced at her, waiting for her to elaborate.

"The music" she replied, pointing feebly towards the speakers. She didn't like the look he shot her, so she dropped her hand as nonchalantly as she could.

Dean let out a breath, and half-grinned. "We're gonna have to teach you a few things, huh?"

It sounded slightly ominous, but all she let out was a grunt. Then, "Like what?"

After making sure the road in front of them was clear – and straight, he nodded towards the glove compartment and said, "Number one. All the music worth listening to is in there."

She laughed – at his audacity for even thinking he was the most knowledgeable connoisseur of fine music. Or because she plain didn't believe him. "Surely, you jest."

A snort came from the driver's seat. "_Surely, you jest?_ God, I haven't heard anyone speak like that since Sammy."

"Yeah, well, I find your statement to be highly absurd."

"Trust me," he said, somewhat sternly. "I should know. Driving all across America for my entire life now, listening to all those crap they pass off as radio stations. Makes my ears bleed. No physical trauma necessary. And again, I should know."

She reached over to pop open the glove compartment – in a way that would conceal her real motive, which was to find a new position for her bones and /DC. Metallica. Blue Oyster Cult. And a bunch of other names she hadn't even heard of. She was familiar with AC/DC and Metallica, of course – and perhaps a few others – but her knowledge of "all the music worth listening to" was clearly lacking. Unlike Dean, apparently, she preferred to drive not to music, but to silence. Her car had a stereo system once, but stations kept cutting out and giving way to white noise as she drove through, and it pissed her off. Then her system got stolen in a parking lot of a Best Western, cleaned straight out of the car. It was pretty ironic – the one time she splurged on something that most would consider to be a hotel, her stereo gets pilfered. The lovely folks who scampered off with it didn't feel the need to take the metal box she called a car, at least, so that was good.

Right.

Though she knew everything Dean had said about working together made sense, she was still a little sad about leaving her car to some overeager teenager. True, she wasn't that big a sentimentalist, but John had gotten her the car. Now all she had left of and from him were her collection of weapons, the one photo of him, and the knowledge of whatever lurked in the dark – and how to kill them. Wonderful memories, really.

* * *

They were miles into Idaho before Dean stopped the car in the weedy lawn that passed itself off as a parking lot in front of the Old Trading Post.

"Well," he started, turning off the ignition, "Looks like we're in Opal Country."

She stared at the handwritten sign across the street, which boasted "Opal direct from the Miner!" and laughed. "Thanks, Captain Obvious."

He responded by climbing out of the car, stretching his legs as he finally made it onto solid ground again.

Halfway between Bitterroot Valley and Opal Country, Dean had pulled off the interstate and into a roadside community, telling her he needed to stretch his legs, and that if she needed to use the restroom, that would be her only chance.

She had watched him from the tiny little window in the bathroom, just to make sure he didn't suddenly decide to leave her in god knows where and drive off on his own, though she wouldn't have been able to do anything if he did in fact floor it out of there. She wasn't the world's fastest runner – a great hindrance to her work – and clearly, she wasn't about to burst out of the bathroom and reach the car before he left her in the dust.

Instead, he just leaned against the car and glanced absently at his cell phone. All the "stretching" that he did resulted from scuffing his boot on the dirt road.

Then he pretty much demanded that she get in the back, saying her constant fidgeting distracted the hell out of him. She didn't even utter a peep in protest.

"We can grab a bit to eat at the so-called café down the street," Dean tipped his head towards the rundown shack which called itself the Opal Country Café, "and then head straight into Idaho Falls, or we can find a motel or something and head down in the morning. Take your pick."

She suspected he wasn't used to dishing out choices, seeing how uncomfortable he looked. Then again, he looked about as uncomfortable as a tall, muscular man with a cache of weapons can look.

"I'm fine with anything. You're the one that's been driving all day," she replied, slithering out the backseat. She squinted her eyes as a gale of wind picked up the loose dirt that seemed to cover everything in the town, not wanting to irritate her contacts any further.

"We'll eat first, and see if there even are any places to stay around here. Doesn't look like much," he said, wrinkling his nose for a second. "Please tell me you're not a picky eater."

"I'm not. Put anything in front of me, and I'll eat it. As long as it's food, of course. And if it's not swimming with maggots."

"Good," he nodded, slowing his pace to roughly match hers. "There's nothing worse than a picky eater. Unless, of course, you count witches."

"Witches? They're real?" she perked up, stepping to the side to avoid a pothole of sorts.

"Everything's real. Except Bigfoot, and maybe the Abominable Snowman. Haven't bothered to go looking for the lump of snow yet."

"Pointy hats, warts, and bubbly cauldrons?"

He had to laugh at her naïve eagerness, though it came out more sarcastic than he intended. The look on her face when she asked that reminded him of Sam's puppy dog look, though decidedly more hopeful than sad. He had a feeling he'd get tired of it before the end of the week.

"More like dead pets and hex bags than poisonous apples."

She looked disappointed. "Oh. I'm guessing they can't fly."

"No broomsticks. No wands either, sorry. None of that Harry Potter crap."

"Harry Potter is _not_ crap."

To that, he raised his eyebrows.

"Have you even read them?" she asked, walking past him and into the café.

The walls of the café were littered with photos of opals, ads selling opal jewelry, and an occasional photo of scenery. The dining area was sparse, a few round wooden tables gathered in the middle, and a counter separating the customers from the kitchen.

"You folks lookin' for rings? Straight through the back," a lazy drawl came from behind the counter.

"We're just here for the food," Annabel replied, pointedly ignoring the look on Dean's face, lest she burst out in laughter. She could almost make out a comical "what the fuck" look on his face.

"Well," the man said, lifting his head off the counter, "haven't had one customer all day. 'Bout time to open up the kitchen." He grabbed two menus from the wall and made his way over. "Sit yourselves wherever you want. The name's Clarence."

Dean flipped open his menu while Annabel turned to the owner. "What's good here?"

"Everythin', ma'am. 'Cept I'm partial to my huckleberry pancakes, and, of course, potato skins."

"I'll have 'em both, please."

"Make that double," Dean added, "And a coffee and some water too."

"Comin' right up," Clarence grinned, shuffling back to the kitchen.

"Quaint little place," Dean said under his breath, eyeing the screaming letters advertising their opals.

"What's a huckleberry?"

"Something like a blueberry. State fruit of Idaho," he added, nodding a thank you to Clarence who had just returned with a steaming pot of coffee in one hand and a pitcher of water in the other.

"Can I ask you a question?" she piped up from behind her glass of water. "What's he like?"

Dean knew who she was talking about, but played dumb, focusing on a particularly garish advertisement for "stunningly iridescent" opals set in 18k gold bands. "Who?"

"John."

Before he met her, Dean would have been able to say with confidence that he knew the man as well as a son could know his father, but now, he wasn't so sure. "I thought the two of you spent some time together," Dean said, purposely evading the question. Or, at least, he tried to.

She shrugged. "He came and went. Was barely around for more than a week at a time, and when he was, it was almost all training, all the time."

"And he never mentioned witches?" He eyed her skeptically, stirring his cup of black coffee.

"He didn't mention a lot of things," she replied, biting the tip of the straw as she sucked up the water. "Don't think he wanted me to know too much. Do you think he checks his messages?"

Dean paused. He'd left one message months earlier, in an act of desperation, and John never returned his call. In fact, when Dean had actually managed to get in touch with him about three weeks after the incident, John seemed to have forgotten the contents of the message. Unless he didn't even bother to check his voicemail. Yeah, Dean had to go with that excuse, because the other would mean that a message left by his half-dying eldest son was nothing more than a telemarketer's call. And that didn't sit well with him. At all. Though, granted, he was grateful to not be reminded of that entire event. "No, I don't think he does," he finally managed.

She let out a sigh of relief and blew the hair out of her eyes. "Okay. Good. And, um, it'd be great if you could stop calling him about me too."

He narrowed his eyes at the odd request. This wasn't the first time he'd questioned his judgment about brining her along. Hell, he wasn't even one hundred percent positive that this girl was actually his half-sister. He felt like he hadn't bothered to give the situation the proper amount of research usually required of a simple salt and burn. And a salt and burn was significantly more commonplace than having a half-sister pop up out of nowhere. But, looking at her now, he could definitely see his father's eyes staring straight back at him, though decidedly more feminine. It was more or less a little unsettling.

Annabel noticed the look on his face, and added, "I'm pretty sure he still thinks I'm in New York, still living in the apartment we had, earning a respectable living somehow." She snorted. "Maybe even college."

"Huckleberry pancakes and potato skins," Clarence announced, ceremoniously placing a rather large plate in front of Annabel. "And for you too."

"Thanks," Dean said, reaching for the syrup. "So," he started casually, "College, huh?"

She nodded, her cheeks resembling those of chipmunks, her fork still dangling in the air. "He wanted me to go. Said this hunting business was no place for me, that I'd be better off in a classroom."

"Did he," he replied, stabbing his stack of pancakes with more force than necessary.

If she noticed, she didn't say anything. Instead, she shut her mouth and continued eating, knowing when to take a hint.

Apparently, Clarence noticed the silence that had fallen upon his only table. "So what are you folks doin' around here? Visitin' the forest, I bet," he said sagely, sitting himself down across the way with his own plate of pancakes.

"Just on a roadtrip," Annabel responded politely, wiping the sides of her mouth with a napkin she'd plucked from the dispenser.

"Seen anything interestin'? I've been itchin' to travel, but ma says I gotta look after this place," he sighed, gesturing around the room.

"Yeah, business is booming," Dean intoned, holding his gaze steady as he shifted his attention from his food, to Annabel, and finally to Clarence.

"Just started out," Annabel said quickly, shooting Dean a look that said _be nice_. Clarence didn't even seem to notice the exchange. "Are there any motels around the area?"

* * *

Half an hour later, Dean was speeding down the interstate while Annabel was sprawled out over the backseat.

"What's in Idaho?" she asked, head turned so she could peer out the window. It was times like these when she really considered herself to be a "city girl," whatever the hell that meant. The vast expanse of the country depressed her the same time it fascinated her. And mountains. Never any good for her aversion to heights.

"A job," he replied a beat or two later, as if debating whether or not to ignore her question.

"What're we hunting?" she asked eagerly, turning away from the window to stare at rearview mirror. When he didn't return her gaze, she focused instead on the back of his head.

"_We_ are not hunting anything."

"You can't just lock me in the room," she protested, hating the very fact that she sounded like a prepubescent teen. "I thought you said we're partners."

"You shouldn't even be moving around," he responded, "And for the record, I _can_ just lock you in the room."

She huffed. "Not like it'd do much." She'd always been independent, and she enjoyed not having to tell anyone where she was, when she'd return, who she was with, and most of all, she liked doing whatever she wanted, whenever she chose to. Except all that came to an end the minute she met John Winchester. She was "free" again after he left, but now what. Another parental figure. She couldn't say she minded all that much, this time around, because they were _almost_ on equal levels. Almost. Also, it was nice having someone else around – especially someone taller, muscular, and well, manlier. So she sucked it up and studied the moon.

"Yeah, well, it's the action that counts. Anyway, it's just a simple salt and burn. Shouldn't be hard, seeing as how it's Casper the friendly ghost. Just sits up in a tree, smiling at people. Creepy, really."

"If it's so friendly, why even bother?"

He didn't answer.

Honestly, maybe she wasn't as independent as she thought.

* * *

Dubois was big enough of a small town that they didn't have to stay the night in a rundown shack boasting a flickering "VACANCY" sign out front. No, this place was as high class as motels got, with a lobby – which was clean, _lit_, and staffed with people wearing matching uniforms. Dean felt like he stepped into The Plaza of middle-of-nowhere motels, and as long as the room was cheap, he didn't give a damn.

"Room 18. Just make a left, walk straight down, and it'll be on the right, Mr…Harrison," the boy behind the counter said, handing him a set of keys. "Checkout's at noon tomorrow."

By the time Dean finished showering, Annabel had already made herself comfortable on the bed she'd claimed as her own, snuggled deep under the covers, eyes trained on a riveting episode of Antiques Roadshow.

"Guess you're not showering?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Too much of a hassle. Did you see how much the set of plates are worth? It's crazy."

He yawned as he stuffed his dirty clothes into a plastic bag and placed it next to his duffel. As much as he loved the Impala, there wasn't much to be said about it's comfort, especially not after sitting in it for almost an entire day. "We'll take a look at you tomorrow, and if everything's fine, we'll see about taking them off."

"Everything's fine," she replied fervently, tearing her eyes away from the screen. "God, can't wait to cut these off of me."

"I'll bet."

He'd pulled on the old pair of sweatpants that he'd been wearing to bed for the past few days, because honestly, he wasn't sure what to wear to sleep anymore. Normally, he'd just splay out on the bed and sleep in a pair of boxers – or jeans, depending how tired he was and how clean the sheets looked. It was weird having a girl around who wasn't expecting Dean to be wearing anything but his birthday suit. And that made things sufficiently awkward on his side.

He stared at the television, watching – but not really listening to the curator drone on about the history of the Ming vase.

It felt _normal_, if not awkward.

Yawning again, he slid so that he was flat on his back, pushing the covers down as he did so. "Yeah, well, goodnight," he said, turning off the lamp on the nightstand beside him.

"'Night," she replied, turning her own lamp off, leaving the room in a bluish tint – a mixture of the TV screen and the lights from outside.

But he didn't fall asleep immediately, like he usually did. Instead, he laid there, head propped on his right arm, mulling things over. He was feeling more and more like Sam – the next thing you know, he'll be spending as much time in libraries as he did in bars.

Strangely enough, he was glad Annabel wasn't a guy. After all he and Sam had gone through, having another brother in the mix? Probably wouldn't go down very well. But then again, girls? What did he know about girls? Only everything he probably shouldn't know about sisters, that's for sure.

"You still awake?" came a poorly disguised whisper followed by the creaking of bedsprings.

Dean grunted. "Even if I wasn't, that alone would've woken me up."

"What was your mom like?" she asked hesitantly, as though debating whether to even ask.

He stared at the ceiling, wondering how much more of the questions he could take. "Curiosity killed the cat."

"Sorry," she said immediately, contrite, "Still trying to figure out where the lines are."

He exhaled, watching the light from the television dance in the darkness. Okay, so it wasn't her fault they were stuck in this situation, and he had to give her credit – she didn't whine much about her injuries. Hell, he knew a grown man twice her size would have squealed like a pig, given that he wasn't a hunter, of course. It's all relative. Dean blinked, trying to stop his thoughts from going on a tangent. "She was beautiful."

"How –"

"Fire," he said curtly, cutting off her question. God, she was predictable.

Silence. Then, "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault."

"Yeah, well, I know John isn't the type to…you know, um, have relations with other women – he doesn't even _look_ at them. Kinda looks through them, you know?"

Dean almost laughed. "Are you apologizing for his…indiscretion?"

"No. I mean, yeah. I don't know," she muttered. "Right. Goodnight."

She was almost as awkward around him as a teenaged Sammy was around girls. He hated how much she reminded him of his brother, because that meant he couldn't hold the grudge against his father – and indirectly, against her – for much longer. Not that he held onto grudges forever, of course. He just felt that he had the right to be angry for just a while longer. Just until the initial shock wore off.

Twice already, he'd resisted the urge to leave Sam a voicemail saying along the lines of "Dude, we have a fucking sister. She's short, but definitely looks like Dad. And she's just about as annoying as you were."

He shifted his attention from the ceiling to her side of the room, half-startled by sudden movement. His fingers curled around the hilt of the knife under his pillow, ready to spring into action if necessary.

There was a thud, followed by a, "Hey um, Dean?"

He pushed his knife towards the headboard and turned on the light. "You all right?"

"No, not really," she squeaked, holding up a hand from her current position between her bed and the wall.

"If you keep moving like that, those things will never come off," he warned, walking towards her. He grabbed her outstretched arm and gently helped her to a standing position. "You good?"

Her face reddened. "Yeah. Just needed to go to the bathroom. It was dark."

"Here," he said, shaking his head slightly as he held up her bag. "Your shirt stinks."

He watched her close the bathroom door behind her, and returned to his bed after making sure she wasn't going to somehow slip and fall and hit her head on the toilet or something. It was just his luck, to not only find out he had another sibling, but to have a klutz of a sister at that.

She emerged several minutes later, wearing a shirt that had she not been so expertly bandaged up, would have exposed much more skin than Dean would have liked.

"You always wear clothes like that?" he asked, regretting it the second it came through his lips. _Way to sound like a father, Dean_, he thought.

"What? Oh," she said, looking down, "Sorry. I didn't think – I've always just worn –"

"Yeah," he interrupted, flicking the light switch as she settled back onto her bed, "Don't worry about it. Go to sleep."


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks for the reviews! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and yes, it'll pick up soon (i hope)! The getting-to-know-you stuff is harder than it seems. Like it? Hate it? let me know :)

* * *

**Chapter 5.**

Casper the friendly little girl of a ghost, like most other spirits, did not take well to having her bones dug up, sprinkled with salt, and burned to ashes.

Dean rubbed the side of his aching jaw, glancing back to see if Annabel was indeed still trailing along behind him. She was. _Unfortunately_, he thought, glaring at her. Slightly. Though frying Casper would probably rank among the easiest jobs to date, Annabel was playing the irritating-younger-sibling card to a tee. She could definitely give Sam a run for his money. _Why do we have to salt and burn a friendly ghost? Why do you think it's sticking around?Why why why why why. _Five questions in, Dean finally turned to her, sawed-off loaded, and told her to shut up and quit asking questions.

She complied.

For all of seven minutes.

Her only job was to flick the tiny match – oh so generously provided by the motel lobby – into the coffin, and yet somehow, she managed to get him thrown to the ground. Dean wasn't really sure how it happened – it all happened so fast, but he was certain she contributed to his fall.

He spat on the ground, running his tongue over his teeth to see how much dirt was still lodged in his mouth.

"Sorry," came a meek voice several steps behind him.

Dean grunted, fingers wrapped around his keys like he was imagining choking _someone_.

"I'm not used to working with people," she tried, quickening her footsteps so that she was no longer behind him.

"Don't worry about it," he ground out, working his jaw as he dusted off his jacket. "But, just for future reference, next time I tell you to stay in the room, stay in the fucking room."

"Got it," she replied in a tone that often accompanied a soldier's salute.

* * *

She didn't get it.

Sammy never did, so Dean really didn't know why he expected anyone else to. Speaking to younger siblings was like talking to a fucking wall. He didn't know how his dad had done it. Maybe it was the Marine in him, but then again, John had lost his touch during Sam's last years in high school.

It'd been almost a month since Idaho, and he had the bruises to prove it. It made him feel just the tiniest bit better knowing that she had her own bruises to show for their time together, as horrible as it sounded.

He didn't know what his father was thinking, showing her the ins and outs of the job _and_ providing her with weapons. He'd resolved to have a talk with him, whenever his dad decided to answer his phone or call back. Okay, Dean had to be fair – she was a seasoned hunter with weapons in her hand, but without? She was a world class klutz, tripping over her own shoes and invisible tripwires. Unfortunately, he'd used up his last tube of Krazy Glue on Sam two years ago – and those things are fucking tiny. He hadn't needed any glue since then, but after his third fucking fall – into a swamp no less – he was seriously entertaining the thought of gluing a knife or two to her hands.

At least she wasn't fidgeting in the passenger seat any more, thanks to her new bandage-less body. Over the past month or so, Dean had learned to appreciate any little gift handed to him, even if it came in the form of simply having Annabel sit still. He felt like an old man, what with all the "appreciating the smaller things in life" thing he had going on. Hell, a couple of times, he had lay in bed and wondered whether he was at risk of getting complacent. But then morning always came, and with that came "work," which ultimately led to him somehow suffering a mishap as a result of _her_ doing, and well, that led to anger. So complacent? No, not for another fifty years. Maybe.

"I think I broke my hand," she said glumly from her side of the car, holding up her right elbow with her left hand.

"That's what you said last time," he replied, keeping his eyes on the dark road ahead.

"No, really," she insisted, forcing her hand into his line of sight.

He glanced at it because there was no way for him to avoid seeing it even if he tried. "Yeah, it's broken," he responded nonchalantly. "The clinic's just a few minutes away."

She was too busy scrunching her face in pain to protest.

A few broken bones never set Dean back, but he was wary of getting down and dirty and setting her hand out straight. Even after the weeks they've spent together, he still had trouble seeing her as one of them. And by "them," he meant hunters. Perhaps it was because she just started out on the job, in relative terms, of course, or maybe it was because she was a girl. As much as he liked the fairer sex, they were just that. The fairer sex. Not cut out to be out there hunting monsters – not because they _couldn't_, but because he didn't think they _should_. He wouldn't consider himself to be chivalrous in the general sense of the word, but he always thought women shouldn't be in the front line of danger. But either way, something about her just screamed "delicate," even if it wasn't simply because she was a female. It felt like someone placed her – a china doll, for the sake of the metaphor – into a bullpen, in which he was one of many bulls seeing red, and just let them have at it.

* * *

"You need help with anything?" Dean finally asked, relaxing on his bed as he watched her struggle with her clothes.

If her wrist, two fingers and a thumb weren't broken, and if she wasn't his half-sister, his tone would have taken on a playful quality. But as luck would have it, they shared the same father, so he toned it down.

She glared at him through the sleeve of her t-shirt. "If you wouldn't mind."

Grinning – to himself, he pushed himself off the bed and made his way over to her tangled mess. At a leisurely pace, of course.

He was glad they'd gotten over the initial awkward stage regarding bedclothes. Hell, if she were to ever bring it up, he'd most definitely deny that he had ever been awkward in the bedroom. That'd be based off principle alone, and if nothing else, Dean stuck by his principles. Among other things.

But, still, they compromised. Dean settled on wearing either only pants, or boxers and a t-shirt, while she donned shorts and shirts that were actually held together by material. They hadn't had a heart-to-heart about their pajamas, of course, because now _that_ would have been awkward. Instead, they both gravitated towards the middle ground, and the middle ground was where they stayed.

"Hold your arm up," he ordered, grabbing hold of the neck of the shirt.

"It is up," she replied, voice muffled.

"Your _other_ arm. The one that has a cast on it?" Dean said exasperatedly.

After her top was finally in place, Dean and Annabel retreated to the small kitchenette. It wasn't much of a "kitchenette," really. It was more of a mini-bar sized refrigerator stuffed into a cabinet next to the sink. There were no chairs in the room either – they only had the beds and the windowsill to sit on, and all were filthy.

But you get what you pay for. Or, in their case, they got what Ms. Emmeline Harris paid for.

Dean had been surprised to find out that she was also running credit card scams. He was pretty sure that John didn't teach the little cheat-the-system trick to her, simply because it was a last resort type thing for him.

Turns out Dean was right. She picked it up on her own, filling credit card applications with names out of those trashy Regency romance novels girls loved to read and pass off as cultural literature.

"This _sucks_," she muttered, attempting to uncap a bottle of water with her left hand. "_I _suck."

Dean smirked, but took the bottle from her and uncapped it with ease. "You got _that_ right."

"You're hilarious." She glared at him as he took a swig before handing the bottle back to her. "You drank half the bottle."

He gave the bottle an appraising look, and replied, "More like two fifths."

"Jackass."

"I'm sorry?" Dean cocked his head to the side. "I didn't quite catch that."

"I said, _jackass_," she retorted, finishing off the bottle in two gulps. After she was done, she capped the bottle and tossed it in his direction, though she missed him by about a foot.

"Yeah," he drawled, kicking his duffel bag out of the small space between the two beds. "Great aim. Looks like you're gonna have to sit the next one out."

"We don't even have anything lined up." She rolled her eyes at him and rubbed the side of the cast. "Hey," she piped up, grinning, "You wanna sign it?"

Dean knew from the look on her face that he had to, because she'd just go on and on about it if he didn't. So as he took the Sharpie she had very conveniently kept in her bag, he told himself he was only giving in to prevent himself from being subjected to hours of torture.

"You did not just write _squirt_ on my cast," she said as Dean revealed his masterpiece. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the word straight across the entire length. "Jackass."

He shrugged nonchalantly and pulled his bag out from under the bed. "Takes one to know one. I'm gonna take a shower. Don't leave the room."

"Where the hell am I gonna go?" she frowned, running her fingers over the gem Dean had left on her cast as if attempting to erase it. Not only did he write the somewhat offensive word in huge caps, but he'd also embellished his artwork with bubble letters.

"Y'know," Dean started, grinning like a little boy on Christmas morning, his head sticking through the doorway, "It's not called a _permanent_ marker for shits and giggles."

------------- -------------- ------------ ----------- -------------

"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!" Dean announced loudly as he pulled open the dusty curtains the next morning.

Annabel groaned as the sunlight hit her face, and pulled the comforter over her head in an act of defiance.

"Time to get up!" Dean continued in a very un-Dean-like tone of voice. He reminded himself of Mary Poppins, and though he cringed at the likeness, he couldn't help but grin at what it was doing to Annabel. Served her right for calling him a jackass. And for the mud he was still finding on his body, all because she couldn't run fast enough.

"Fuck off," she mumbled.

"No," he said simply, standing over her. "If you're serious about hunting, you're going to have to learn a few things."

One bleary eye peered over the edge, and an arm reached out from under the covers to retrieve a pair of glasses. She looked at him through the glasses, then flicked her gaze over to the clock wall. "It's six. In the fucking morning. We don't have a job. Check out's not till twelve. And I didn't sleep until four. So fuck off."

He shook his head. "Demons don't wait. Don't make me drag you out of bed," he warned.

She groaned. Loudly. "Fine! What do you want?" she snapped, sitting up as she pushed back the covers.

Her hair was strangely poufy – in a voluminously wrong type of way, and he had to look away to stop himself from slipping out of drill sergeant mode.

"We're going running."

"We're – what? Are you crazy?"

"You can't just be good with weapons. You need to be able to run, and honestly, you run like an emphysmatic on a bad day."

She glowered at him, eyes still retaining a bit of the early morning crazed look. "My legs are shorter than yours."

"Wendigos won't care," he stated matter-of-factly, extracting his sneakers from the bag. "C'mon, we'll start slow."

She'd been around Dean long enough to know that when he set his mind on something, he wouldn't give up until he got whatever it is that he wanted. It was a trait they'd both gotten from John, and most definitely proved to be a problem. After a long standstill, one of them eventually gave in, and this time, it was her turn.

"Fine," she growled, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "But you're gonna have to tie my shoes."

* * *

"You're worse than John, you know that?" Annabel wheezed, hands on her bent knees.

Dean pulled off his shirt, and in one smooth movement, flung it across the room, where it landed right on his bag. "He must've gone easy on you then." Then he added, "Probably didn't think you could take it."

"You really are an ass." She glared at him as she pulled her hair into a tighter ponytail, face still flushed red from the so-called "jog." "I really don't know what all those girls see in you."

He grinned. "They appreciate –"

"Oh, wait," she interrupted, filling a plastic cup with tap water. "You just go after the desperate ones, don't you."

His grin didn't falter. "When I'm around, they're _all_ desperate."

"You've got an amazing set of standards," she said sarcastically, tipping her head back to finish off the water.

"At least I have manners enough to accept drinks when people buy them for me," Dean responded, eyebrow raised. "Regardless of their desperation."

"Fuck off. You'd better have breakfast here by the time I get out of the shower," she warned, dragging her entire bag with her into the bathroom.

"Wrap the hand up in the shower cap. Don't wanna have to go back to the hospital for something like that."

"Yeah, thanks for the concern," she replied, slamming the door behind her.

Smirking, he rummaged through a pile of clothes and pulled out a passably clean plain white tee. He sniffed it gingerly, and wrinkled his nose. Barely passably clean. But it was more than clean enough for a trek to the diner down the street.

She had her head in the small refrigerator when he returned toting their breakfast in his hands.

"What are you doing?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow as he set the boxes on the table.

"I'm missing a bottle of water," she replied, straightening up, the towel-turban on her head making her inches taller – though, even with the towel piled on her head, she was still a few inches shorter than him. "Did you take it?"

"You're insane," he said with a shake of his head. The girl was serious about her water, that much was for sure.

"You did take it," she said triumphantly, grabbing a box from the table. She made herself comfortable on her bed, legs pulled in cross-legged, and popped open the plastic box. "What's this?"

"BLT," Dean responded, mouth full of lettuce. "Heavy on the bacon." He wasn't sure how she concluded that he stole her water bottle from his response, but decided not to push it. After all, he _did_ take it, but really, it's not like there was a clear delineation between his stuff and hers. And, for another thing, he just wanted to eat.

"You pick up some newspapers along the way?"

He shook his head. "Figured we'd had enough of the west."

Annabel looked up, but hesitated. "We could, you know, go visit your brother? I know you've –"

"Can't," he said shortly, "Things to kill, people to save."

"I know I don't know anything about your family – as a whole, I mean, but –"

"You really don't," he snapped, holding what was left of his sandwich in front of him, impatiently, as if waiting for her to quit talking so he could resume eating. Then he exhaled sharply, and said, "Look, you're gonna find out eventually, but just not over breakfast okay? It's not really something I like to divulge over BLTs."

His response seemed to satisfy her, because she stopped talking.

For twenty seconds.

"So where were you thinking?" she asked, carefully extracting a slice of tomato from her sandwich.

"You should eat that, y'know. No one ever told you vegetables are good for you?"

"I'll eat anything, except tomatoes. But I can eat those little ones – the cherry tomatoes I think they're called, yeah?"

"Well, if you're not gonna eat it, give it here," Dean stated, picking up the unwanted tomato slice with two fingers. "Anyway, I was thinking Niagara Falls. There's gotta be something there, what with all those barrel suicides."

"Niagara Falls!" her face lit up, cheeks puffy with food. "I've always wanted to see it."

He shrugged. "We'll probably find a few jobs between here and there. Hustle a little pool, get some cash."

All he wanted to do was put some distance between him and Stanford, because if they got any closer, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from showing up on his brother's doorstep. And he couldn't have that. Pride was a terrible, terrible thing. And, well, Dean didn't know what to do with the Annabel situation. Hell, every little thing John Winchester did irritated Sam, and this was huge. Dean had gotten over it pretty quickly, he'd like to think, but he was definitely still wary about the entire thing. _Especially_ since there was no confirmation from his father. After an entire lifetime of living under orders, Dean had gotten used to it. So being alone now, in a situation his father hadn't trained him for…well, he was obviously just winging it.

He hated winging it. Though Dean was somewhat careless in other aspects of his life, he was dead serious when it came to matters of life and death – his own, or anyone else's – as anyone would be, and that usually entailed drawing up detailed plans and backup plans. But then again, things rarely ever went according to plan.

Dean wiped his mouth and rifled through his bag. "Hey, let me see your IDs."

She sidled up next to him, tin box and wallet in hand. "Why?" she asked as she handed them over.

"We'll have to make you some extra ones – how can you not have an FBI badge? Or even a simple student ID?"

"I never posed as an FBI agent, and no one's ever asked me for any I didn't have," she replied, tugging at the towel on her head.

"Well, they will," he replied, snapping the box shut. "Give me a list of names you want on your cards, and we'll head over to a copy shop. Unless, of course, you want me to take the liberty."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Yeah, and end up having to introduce myself as Barbie? I think not."

"My names are realistic," Dean protested with a grin.

She scoffed. "Oh, I'm sorry. Lara Ulrich or Erica Bloom?"

He hid a smile, and responded exasperatedly, "You clearly don't appreciate my creativity, so then make up your own." But he had to admit, he was proud of her and her ever burgeoning knowledge of what Sammy called his mullet rock collection.

"Can I pick which school I want to go to?" she asked, scribbling some names down on a pad of paper.

"Ours should probably be the same – better for the backstory, in case anyone pries."

"Where do you go?" she cocked her head, looking at him critically, as if they were really college students discussing their school choices.

"Kalamazoo."

"Lame. We should go to Harvard."

"Let's pick a less conspicuous school, all right?"

She huffed. "Fine. Here, enough names?"

"I can't read this," he replied, squinting his eyes at the paper. "What's this? Ara – Annabel? No, Arabella? Arabella Sinclair? Can you _sound_ more desperate? Or have worse handwriting?"

"I can't write with my right hand," she said plaintively, holding up her cast "And desperate would be Heather anything. Or Brandi with an i. Or _anything_ with an i for that matter," she shot back, making a dig at Dean's most recent conquests – though are they still considered conquests if the spoils of war came willingly? Heather something, and a whole slew of phone numbers from girls with names that ended in "i" – with a few that ended in "y"s for good measure.

"Yeah," Dean grinned, reliving the memories. All curves and not much brain. Just the way he liked them. Hell, it wasn't like he was looking for someone to settle down with, so he really didn't get what the big deal was. "They were fun."

She pulled her towel off her head and snapped him on the back with it. "Pig."

"Your cast says what I don't have to say," he said, pointing at the giant bubble letters.

"Whatever," she scoffed, brushing past him to return to her bed. "Take a shower. You stink. And, by the way, what's-her-name, the bartender in Utah? Terrible hair. And she looked like she took makeup lessons from trannies."

"It's pretty easy to look past that physical stuff," Dean replied sagely, eyes full of mischief.

"Pig."


	6. Chapter 6

_Hey everyone! Thanks for all the wonderful reviews! Sam's still not really in the picture yet - it's something I'm hoping to rectify soon, but things are going slowly. :(_

_Anyway, I really hope you enjoy this chapter._

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**Chapter Six.**

"Dean!" she yelled, eyes wide in exasperation and hair sticking out every which way. "Just get in the fucking backseat already!"

Dean made a move to protest, but was cut off.

"You've got about a foot and sixty pounds on me. There's no way you'll wake up tomorrow and be able to move let alone _drive_. And we both know you won't even let me touch the wheel. Plus, I'm already here, so unless you want the backseat to go to waste…"

He growled, but kicked the door open anyway. "You're really irritating, you know that?"

"You'll thank me in the morning," she replied, leaning back against the seat as she put her feet up on the dashboard. She smiled to herself as she heard him try and get comfortable in the back. "Goodnight."

They'd driven their way through Wyoming, Nebraska, Missouri, and part of Illinois with no ghosts standing in their way – though they did take a detour to Laramie, Wyoming, for Abraham Lincoln's gigantic bronze head. At her insistence, of course. It was part of their job to drive all across the continental United States to kill things that should've stayed dead, but they were allowed to have fun between hunts, right? That was her theory, at least.

Dean seemed to agree, but his definition of "fun" was entirely different from her own. Having fun, according to _him_, meant girls, girls, and more girls, with an occasional side of alcohol and a smattering of roadside dives. Fun for her pretty much just meant travelling and sight-seeing. And, as of recently, it meant thwarting his womanizing ways.

She crossed her ankles on the dashboard and leaned her head against the door, plumping up the sweatshirt underneath her head as she shifted in her seat.

"Lock the doors," Dean said after a few minutes.

"They're locked."

"Check 'em."

"They're locked" she repeated. "Go to sleep. Or else I'm going to start asking questions about nothing."

"Jesus, woman, I'm asleep," Dean responded with a fake snore.

His breathing evened out only minutes later. She glanced at her watch, squinting in the darkness trying to make out the moon's reflection on the face. It was either just past eleven, or almost one. _Need to get myself a glow in the dark watch_, she thought, pushing back against the seat. _Or a digital one. That'd be nice._

She ran a hand through her hair and grimaced at its stringiness. As much as she loved travelling, she didn't enjoy the havoc it wreaked on her hair. Maybe it was karma. Yeah. When it was just her and her Volkswagen, she could look as shitty as she wanted to, and it wouldn't matter. But now she felt like she had to maintain a sense of decorum. Why, she didn't know, but it just felt wrong to sit in _this_ car, with Dean, stewing in body odor.

After tossing and turning – as well she could in the passenger seat, at least – she gave up and set her pillow between the driver and passenger seat, and splayed out across the front.

_I need my infomercials_, she thought, turning so that she could see the flat prairie of Central Illinois through the windshield, as if pretending it was a large, widescreen – albeit curved – television. As a source of entertainment, the windshield – and all that lurked behind it – sucked.

Even though she was excited about Niagara Falls, she knew they shouldn't have gone east. With everything that had happened to her mom – and with John disappearing and leaving her to fend for herself, she knew that while being independent was extremely important, keeping whatever family members one _did_ have was equally – if not more – important. And though there was some apparent communication problem between the three Winchester men, she knew it had to be fixed. Being the one to take on challenges, she decided she had to make a trip to Stanford. Not to meddle, of course, because meddling is right on par with nagging, but to satisfy her curiosity.

The two oldest Winchester men were very, very impressive, she'd deduced several weeks ago. The third must be of similar caliber – unless, of course, he wasn't. And maybe he really wasn't. Taking the easy way out. Going to school, replacing guns with books, poltergeists with professors. Maybe he chose college because he couldn't handle the business? Nah, she shook her head, she was about 95% sure that any son raised by John Winchester would be equally impressive.

But she'd have to wait and see. And she would. Even if she had to knock Dean out and drive all the way to Palo Alto. She really wanted to slap him upside the head and tell him that family is family, no matter what, and to suck it up and go see Sam.

A combination of stubborn and nosy never fared well for anyone, but she couldn't help it. Okay, yeah, it'd probably take her a while to get around to knocking Dean out, not because she was scared of him, but because she wanted to spend as much time sightseeing as possible. Yep. Right. And, of course, saving the world, salting and burning one thing at a time.

Sighing, she sat up, draped her arms over the back of the seat, and peered at Dean. Actually, it was more of a full on stare than a mere peer. But he was clearly asleep, so it wouldn't pose any potential awkwardness.

Even in his sleep, he looked a mixture of 'playful' in the Dean kind of way and something akin to a if-you-mess-with-me-I'll-kill-you severeness. Dangerous, yet safe. Just like John. As long as you're not on his bad side. That was what was making her press the pause button on her plan to unite the two brothers – because no matter how curious and stubborn she was, she knew when to put a lid on it. Most of the time. _I don't know him, _she thought, _and he doesn't even know I exist. Hell, he'd probably do what Dean did and flip out. And maybe he's a jerk and doesn't deserve having people worry about him. _But that didn't matter, because people _were_ worrying about him.

Dean turned in his sleep, his jacket making a crackling noise as it rubbed against the seat.

_Well, _she thought with a hint of a grin, _whatever he's like, I hope he's as good-looking as the rest of his family._ Before Dean, the only men she'd met were the ones who wore ratty trucker caps and flannel, had spotty facial hair, dirty clothes, and pretty much exemplified what people would call "white trash" or any other derogative version of it.

She shook out her sweatshirt-pillow and slipped it over her head, pulling it down hard to get her head through the neck hole. It wasn't like she had a big head or anything – at least, she hoped – but her head always got stuck in sweatshirts. And it always messed up her hair.

* * *

Annabel woke the next day to a knock on the window. Startled, she sat up abruptly and missed hitting the top of the car by a hair. "What the fuck…" she yelped, staring at Dean's amused mug. "What are you doing?"

Dean leaned in to peer into the window before pulling the door open, gesturing for her to scoot aside. He stuffed his cell phone into his pocket before getting comfortable. "Looks like we won't be heading to New York just yet," he said, pulling a bottle of water out of his other jacket pocket.

She took it gratefully and downed half the bottle in one gulp before replying. "What do you mean?"

He tapped the pocket he'd placed his phone in just seconds ago. "Coordinates. Maryland."

"Coordinates?" she asked with a frown. "Who sent them to you?"

"Unknown number, but it's Dad. And _don't_ ask me how I know. It's too early for your questions," he said, cutting her off before she could even start.

She slide the hood off her head, disappointed that she'd become so predictable after only a month. "So what's in Maryland?"

"Besides government types and seafood?" he snorted as he started the car. "I don't know. Guess we'll find out soon enough. Hungry?"

She shook her head. "Sleepy."

He cast her a sidelong glance. "I don't see why. You slept longer last night than ever before."

"Sleep overload maybe?" she responded, rubbing her eyes. She dug through the glove compartment and pulled out a small eye drop bottle seconds later, which she handed to Dean with a sheepish grin. "Open it for me, yeah?"

"Can't wait for that thing to come off."

"Thanks," she replied, squeezing a few drops into each eye before she passed it back to Dean to re-cap. "I can't wait either. Y'know, it's really irritating having to walk around with a huge 'squirt' on my arm."

"Should you be sleeping with contacts in?" Dean asked absently as he floored it down the interstate. "Won't your eyes get infected or something?"

Annabel held up her _papier_-_mâchéd _hand. "Unless _you're_ going to take them out for me, I don't see how they'll come out."

"Point taken."

* * *

They went south when they originally planned on heading north, and ended up in a small-town bar in central West Virginia full of burly men in trucker caps. And judging from the tractor trailers and trucks in the weedy lot, they weren't just wearing those caps for kicks. It was one of those places that Annabel wouldn't have set foot in without her trusty 9mm. And a sharpened knife or two in her boot.

But still, it was quaint enough to have booths and dinner. Though really, quaint wasn't the right word.

She took a bite out of her burger and washed it down with the beer Dean had left on the table. She had never been much of a drinker, since there was something inherently dangerous about getting drunk when you're on the road by yourself, no matter how many knives you had on your body. Because honestly, if it's a six-foot, 200-plus pound guy on a mission, he could just sit on you and you'd be dead. Especially if you're five foot three and 115 pounds…give or take a few, depending on the time of the month…and whether or not she was wearing her hiking boots. But then they'd just become a huge liability, preventing her from running the fastest she could go, which wasn't extremely fast to begin with.

"You know," Dean started, settling back into the booth with an unceremonious thump, "I've never been to West Virginia before."

"Is it all you expected and more?" she replied, quirking her eyebrow.

"No, smartass, it's not."

"That's too bad."

He ignored her comment, and continued. "Never expected it to be full of hicks."

"That's a hell of a generalization."

Dean shrugged. "Anyway," he started, reaching for a French fry, "Glenn Dale. Abandoned hospital."

"How'd you figure that out?"

"I have my ways," he said conspiratorially.

"Yeah, yeah. What's so special about the place to warrant a text?" Annabel asked, stuffing the last couple of fries in her mouth before Dean could reach them.

"Well, we're gonna have to wait and see, won't we," Dean said, taking on her smartass tone. "If you hurry up, we'll probably be able to get to Maryland by nightfall."

"I'm sorry I can't shovel food into my mouth like you do," she responded, glaring at him as she wiped her mouth.

"Could've fooled me."

"So that's all you've got? Abandoned hospital?"

"It was a tuberculosis sanitarium for DC in the 30s, and after TB died down, it was used to treat the chronically ill," Dean started, throwing a few bills onto the table. "The two main buildings had their own morgues, and the facility was closed in the early 80s. So basically, idiot kids decide to have some pre-Halloween fun and one of them was found hanging by some pipes in the basement."

"I hate kids," she sighed, following him out to the car.

* * *

They had arrived just outside Baltimore hours before nightfall – thanks to Dean's driving and the empty stretches of highway. So instead of setting up shop in a motel room, they decided to first figure out what was going on at Glenn Dale.

Though Glenn Dale was miles down the interstate, the locals in Jessup knew quite a bit about its history – and current events. And they were eager to share this bit of information to a pair of up-and-coming ghost-researching bloggers.

Turned out one of the waitresses at a small mom and pop seafood place knew someone who was friends with the kid that wasn't the one hanging from the ceiling. And as luck would have it, the idiot lived right on the outskirts of town.

Dean tapped his pen against the pad of paper he'd taken from the motel in Idaho. "Your friend – Hannah – it was deemed a suicide?"

Tom, the subject in question nodded, albeit defiantly. He glared at Dean like Dean was the police rather than a lame blogger. "They're wrong. Hannah wasn't suicidal at all. Something killed her."

"Something?" Dean asked skeptically, pen pausing above the pad. "Don't you mean _someone_?"

Tom shrugged and kept quiet.

Annabel cut in. "Why Glenn Dale?"

"It's almost Halloween, and I guess we thought it'd be cool to check it out. Hannah loved ghost stories."

"Can you tell us a little about the place?"

"Well," he started, fiddling with his sleeves. "They say there was a massive TB outbreak in the 70s, and the only thing they could do to contain it was to lock and board all the doors and windows and let the patients die," said the harried teenager as he stared into his drink. "We thought it was just a rumor, all the terrible things in there, but there was definitely something in that hospital."

"So you two went there at night, and you found Hannah swing—" Dean broke off as Annabel's elbow connected against his side.

"What he meant was, what happened when you were there?"

He swallowed, his stringy hair falling into his face. "I was exploring the morgue, and she was still in one of the rooms upstairs. We figured it'd be okay, because we both had flashlights, but the hospital was larger than we thought. But we couldn't rely too much on the flashlights, because the police are always there looking to arrest trespassers. Anyway, I heard a weird shuffling from the corridor, and by the time I found her, she was dead."

Annabel shifted in her seat, staring at Dean in attempt to get him to say something. Comforting people was definitely _not_ her forte. She was more of a pat-you-awkwardly-on-the-shoulder-and-walk-away-as-fast-as-possible type of person when it came to these situations.

Dean coughed. "No suicidal tendencies at all?"

Clearly it wasn't Dean's strong point either.

Tom frowned. "No. She was looking forward to going trick-or-treating on Halloween. It's her favorite day of the year. There's no way she'd kill herself before it, even if she was…suicidal. Which she wasn't."

"So how did she –"

"I don't know, okay? Probably some ghosts that died from TB or something."

"Did you feel any cold spots, smell anything weird?" Dean pressed on.

"It's almost November, 'course it's cold. And the place is abandoned. It's rank."

"So, um, the police?" Annabel interrupted, recognizing when a conversation was going bad.

"They're always there. You just can't see them. I had to pay a four hundred dollar fine and serve hours of community service."

"Really. Well, thank you for your time. Enjoy the coffee," Dean said, rising.

Annabel quickly followed suit. "I'm sorry about Hannah," she said, patting Tom on the shoulder as she brushed past.

"It's getting late," Dean started as he started the car. "Motel?"

"Yeah. Think I saw one down the street. So what do you think?"

"Sounds good," he replied.

"No, I mean the kid."

"Think he's telling the truth. Don't see a reason for him not to. This place look good?" Dean asked, even though he pulled into the lot before she could answer.

"Looks like a truck stop to me, but yeah. I'm tired," she said, glancing at the half-lit sign that read _Knights Inn_. "Actually," she added as she cast a wary look across the street, "Bring the stash of guns, just in case."

"You are way too paranoid," Dean said with a shake of his head. But, he went out back and unlocked the trunk.

She grabbed their bags from the backseat and slammed the door. "It's called being cautious. Being safe."

He snorted. "There is no _safe_ in this life."

"Yeah well, there's no harm in looking for it."

* * *

"You know," Annabel started as they left the Impala hidden quite a stretch from the hospital, "That motel has got to be the worst I've seen. I swear, I've counted fourteen bug bites already."

Dean slung the duffel over his shoulder, scratching his chin with his other hand. "Trust me, there are worse. Which building was it?"

"The big one. The local haunted buildings website said it'll be the lone building on the left-hand side. Pretty hard to miss," she replied, shuffling close behind. "God," she sighed, catching herself before she fell onto a maze of exposed roots, "with all the supposed security around this place, you'd think they'd have enough time on their hands to clean up the place a bit."

"You sure you're up for this?" Dean asked, pausing to let her catch up.

"I'll be fine. Plus, it's just a preliminary scope-out, isn't it?"

"It's not you I'm worried about," he muttered under his breath, scanning the bushes for pesky policemen.

"Thanks," she replied sarcastically. "I may not be a lefty, but working with just a left hand is better than working with none at all."

"Except when the person working with that left hand would be better off in the motel room."

"Yeah, well, when a crazy TB-ghost is trying to string you up, this left hand will sit idly by and do nothing. And I'm _not_ staying in that room by myself."

Dean laughed, trudging ahead through the damp ground. Twigs cracked underneath his boots, but no one else was around to notice. "We might be here for a while – a few days, if we're lucky."

"I would just sleep in the car, except for the fact that there's a maximum security prison right across the street."

Dean motioned for her to be quiet. "You hear that?"

Annabel strained her ears to listen, but heard nothing out of the ordinary.

"Over there," he whispered, stepping cautiously towards the supposed noise.

She followed him even though she hadn't heard a thing, all the while keeping an eye out for anything that might decide to come at them from other directions. It was doubtful it was a ghost or anything of the sort, because for one thing, they weren't even close to a building. Unless the entire 200-something acre grounds was one big burial ground posing as an abandoned hospital.

Dean emerged with a shrug, looking a mixture of sheepish and irritated. "Just a deer."

Nature. She hated it. And to think, AP Environmental Science was her favorite class – back when she actually went to school. But when you're busy dealing with nightmarish entities – without receiving any compensation, taking on fake identities, and staying off the radar, you just don't have time to seek out local recycling centers. Nor do you have time to swerve on dark winding roads just to save deer or squirrels.

They continued the walk down the road, sticking close by the fallen trees and bushes, just in case some cops were having their mid-shift donuts in the area.

"So what do you think's in there?"

"Who knows. Could be any or all of the patients that've died in there."

"That's it right there. The adult hospital," she pointed out, staring at the brick building with slight trepidation. She'd often thought she wasn't at all cut out for the career that she'd taken on, but these thoughts only came before – and not during – particular jobs. So her performance wasn't affected – just her nerves. It was probably a good thing that she always worked well under pressure. But god, the nerves.

At least it was daytime.

"All right," Dean said in his normal commanding voice. "Six floors plus the basement, right? I'll take the top four, and you take the two and the basement. Got your flashlight?" he asked as they made their way through the tall weeds. "Phones should work – we're not too far from town. But if not, we'll meet out here. Got it?"

She nodded, holding her industrial-sized flashlight in her left hand. "I brought some duct tape. You know, so I could use both hands instead of just one."

Dean let out a half-smile as he took the roll of tape from her pocket. She held out her plastered hand and the flashlight, and waited for him to tape the two together. He rolled the tape around the flashlight and her hand a few times, making sure that it was secure.

"You look funny."

Grinning, she took the small EMF contraption from her other pocket, and flipped it on. She couldn't hold anything with her right hand, but hell if she was going to stand by and just have it hang loosely by her side. And now, with the added weight of the flashlight, if anything corporeal came at her, she could always smash the flashlight against their jugular. It'd be like having full use of both hands. Or something. _Maybe I should wedge a blade in there too. It could be very useful_, she thought as she crossed the threshold and entered the building.

"See you in a bit," Dean said, taking off for the stairs. They were at the end of the hall – an almost never-ending hall, the way it looked – if the blueprints in the library were correct. "Be careful."

"Yeah, you too," she echoed, stepping into the doorway on her right. She almost wanted to suggest that they go through the place together, but what was the point of having a partner if you're both going to do the same thing?

The place made her uncomfortable.

Understatement.

Annabel made her way through the first and second floors having noticed nothing out of the ordinary – except for a pair of dentures suspended in some congealed liquid, some children's drawings, and some leftover beer and chips, no doubt gifts left behind by local teenagers.

The basement, however, was a different matter. Not only was it much darker, but it smelled like a mixture of skunk and embalming fluid, with a dash of fecal matter. And the water that lined the ground didn't help much. Every step she took, no matter how carefully, water splashed up her jeans. It probably wasn't just water either, but she willed herself to stop thinking about it.

She pointed her flashlight down the hall, and was unhappily surprised to see that there was no end in sight. The basement was definitely much, much larger than the upper floors. _Maybe the tunnels _are_ real_, she thought, pushing her way through the doorway shabbily labeled as the morgue.

She stiffened as she felt a cool breeze brush past her, bracing herself for an encounter with the not-so-dead variety. But there was nothing there, and the EMF was quiet.

It was too quiet.

She turned and ended up facing rows and rows of cabinets. Some were left open, revealing the rusty slabs inside. Apparently some rats had taken up shop in several of them, as evidenced by the rat droppings littered about. They actual pests were nowhere to be seen, however.

It was all very creepy, what with the graffitied skulls on the walls and the mysterious breeze, but all in all, things were as normal as they could be for an abandoned building. Then she remembered the girl died on the upper floors.

After a quick run-through of the basement – the tunnel was boarded off – she decided to head upstairs to check on Dean…after she made sure he wasn't already waiting for her outside. He wasn't.

The stairs caved a little under her weight, so she pressed her cast against the wall to spread the weight around.

"Dean?" she whispered, poking her head into room after room. "Why am I whispering?" she wondered out loud, frowning as she panned her flashlight around the room. "Dean?"

"Well fuck," she half-growled half-groaned, as her light blinked a few times before giving out completely. The windows were small and had been boarded – though many had rotted and fallen apart, so they offered little light, but she had to make do. It was just her luck. Typical. These types of things only happened in badly-written horror films – and in her opinion, they were all badly written – but apparently someone had it out for her.

She left sopping wet footsteps in her wake as she made her way into what looked like a bathroom. There was a large ceramic tub in middle of the room, filled with muddy water that looked like it was home to all things unsanitary. The toilets weren't much better. In fact, even in the dim light, she could have sworn there was unflushed fecal matter in three of the five toilets. _Probably the locals_, she thought, resisting the urge to gag as she noticed the flies. _Holy jesus. _

She tried to imagine the room as it had been when the building was first constructed, but couldn't see past the current state of decay and rust. But no matter how luxurious it may have been, having a row of toilets with nothing separating the user from others was simply unimaginable. The luxuries of modern life.

It took her about fifteen minutes to go through the different rooms on the third floor, and as she ascended the steps, she called out Dean's name yet again.

He was just headed towards the stairwell as her head popped into view. "What're you doing up here?" he asked, irritated, after he ascertained that she was in fact still in one piece.

"Got nothing. Just checking to make sure everything's okay up here," she replied. "Everything good?"

"Everything's clean. No EMF spikes, no bones, nothing. You sure the kid said it was this building?"

Annabel nodded. "Maybe whatever it is rests during the day? I mean, things do that, right?"

"Or maybe we'll have to check the other buildings too. We'll have to wait it out though. Make sure the cops are gone."

She uttered a sound of agreement. "Oh," she began, "I found the tunnel – it's in the basement. It's supposed to lead to the children's building, and I'm pretty sure there won't be any cops down there."

"What're we waiting for then?" Dean asked, clicking on his flashlight as he continued down the stairs.


	7. Chapter 7

It's taking me forever to get to what I wanted to write about. But I suppose some type of a back story is necessary?  
So sorry if this is boring! And as always, reviews are greatly appreciated!

* * *

**Chapter 7**

"God-fucking-_damnit_!" Annabel growled as she withdrew her leg from the low-pressure shower. It was cold – no, it was _freezing_.

She hated Maryland. First were the bug bites – the beds were probably infested with bed bugs, for all they knew; second, the hospital and its rancid water-logged tunnels; third, the hospital's ghost who managed to fling both Annabel and Dean against an unnecessarily embellished graffitied skull on the cement walls; and fourth, the fucking Knight's Inn.

The spirit – whom Dean was searching for on the mindblowingly slow internet connection in the room (though granted, at least there _was_ internet) – wasn't particularly nasty in and of itself. It was just the fact that she had flung them against the wall, which in turn caused them to fall into the knee-high water. And that meant they were drenched from head to toe – or, at least, Annabel was. Dean was lucky – he'd somehow managed to fall on his ass – in a sitting position, and that was precisely why Annabel had called the shower first. He still got drenched, true, but at least he hadn't fallen flat into the water in a quasi-bellyflop _a la_ his companion.

"You all right?" Dean yelled from the room, though he didn't really have to yell – the walls were paper thin – and peeling.

"Just fucking _peachy!_" she yelled back, bracing herself as she stepped back into the tub – with flip-flops, of course, because even though she was dirty as all hell, she didn't want to catch anything else from the godforsaken state. The water hit her skin like tiny icicles, and she could feel her hair rise immediately. It was disconcerting. But, she gritted her teeth and scrubbed down, squeezing a larger-than-necessary dollop of shampoo into her palms. _Think of the desert, Annabel,_ she instructed herself, rinsing out the shampoo before repeating the process with her travel-sized conditioner. _Death Valley. In the summer. Lost, no water. _It wasn't that she wasn't imaginative – it was just that she always thought it silly that _thoughts_ could contend against reality. No, she wasn't about to die from sunstroke in the middle of Nowhere, California. Nope. She was currently taking a dive in a stupid Polar Bear Swim.

Idiots. _You wanna feel awake? Drink some fucking coffee._

Opening her mouth against the water, she forced herself to wait a few seconds before gargling and spitting out the tunnel residue. Then she rinsed herself off one last time before turning off the faucet with much more force than necessary. Though if she really put her will into it, she would have smashed the thing straight through the wall. But, Dean was still stinking up the room, and tomorrow would be a horrible experience for both of them if she had in fact broken the shower.

She grabbed one of the towels from the bar and cocooned herself into a gigantic body-turban, watching the disturbingly brown water flow into the drain. After fighting with her stiff joints, she managed to do the same to her hair. She was shivering, and hell, she resembled a ghost, but what seemed the strangest to her was that the bathroom was not all fogged up. It made complete sense, seeing as how the water was ice-cold, but it was plain weird. Her showers _always_ fogged up the bathroom.

Bundling up her pajamas, she hugged them against her chest as she walked out, leaving her possibly sewer-drenched clothes on the floor. She dropped her clothes onto the bed – on top of her bag – and attempted to smooth the goosebumps on her arms. "Shower's all yours."

What she really wanted to do was snuggle up underneath the covers, but the thought of bed bugs and creepy crawlers making their way up her body made her reconsider.

So she just stood there, watching Dean write something down on a pad of paper.

"Found her," he announced with a grin. "Mary Ellen Smyth, sent in for TB in the late 30s, never came out. Remember we saw the rope burns around her throat? She hanged herself a couple of years later, in the children's hospital. I'm guessing that's where the tunnel led."

Annabel tried to look interested, tried to listen, but she was about ten words behind.

"Luckily for us though, she was buried in the cemetery on the grounds."

He was halfway to the bathroom when his words registered in her brain. "Why now?"

"She died on Halloween, and apparently the kids this year are bigger idiots than before. Usually the police do a pretty good job keeping people out – and that's saying a lot, coming from me," he replied, closing the bathroom door behind him.

It wasn't until she heard Dean let out a long stream of curses when she realized she should have warned him. And karma was a bitch, even though her forgetfulness wasn't intentional. But still, karma didn't give a damn, because right at that moment, a spider with the longest, thinnest legs she'd ever seen was slowly making its way across the wall.

So of course, when Dean came out of the shower minutes later – though it seemed like hours to Annabel – all fuming but relatively clean, he saw her huddled in the center of the room, on top of the chair, staring frightfully at a spot on the wall.

"Where is it?" he sighed, grabbing a piece of paper from the trash.

"Right there," she squeaked, pointing to the offensive creature.

"I can't believe you've gone up against Wendigos and spirits, but are still afraid of these things," Dean said with a shake of his head, crushing the daddy-long-legs with one easy swipe.

"Thanks," she replied, still frozen in her spot. "Sorry I forgot to tell you 'bout the water."

He shrugged, swiping at the water droplets threatening to fall on his forehead. "That should take care of all the cold showers I'll need for the next year."

"Classy."

"What can I say," Dean responded with a grin before turning to his bag. "You gonna put some clothes on, or are you settling with the terrycloth look?"

"It's cold."

"So put on some clothes," he said, throwing a sweatshirt at her face. "And don't forget to blow-dry that cast."

She peeled it off her face and slipped it on over her towels. Apparently Dean's brains hadn't yet had time to thaw out, because he'd thrown one of his own sweatshirts at her. Thankfully. Because it was larger – and thus had more fabric…and _almost_ reached her knees. Oh, the perks of being short…and of having a sometimes-not-so-observant older half-brother. "I'll dry it later."

"Don't get too comfortable," Dean warned, settling back in front of the laptop like taking cold showers was normal for him. "We should be off in an hour or so. It's already getting kinda dark."

"There's no such thing as 'too comfortable,'" she replied, electing to sit on her duffel bag instead of either of the beds. "Hey, you think if we finish this job up soon…we can head down to DC? I'd rather see Lincoln's full body instead of just a head."

Dean grunted, his eyes trained on the screen in front of him.

"I'm going to take that as a yes," she announced, unraveling the towel on her head.

"What? Oh – yeah, yeah, whatever," he said, waving her off. "Okay. So besides the one we saw today, there have been two other documented suicides. All happened a week or two around Halloween. Joel McCarthy – swallowed an entire bottle of pills in the fifties, and Carver Johnson, slit his wrists with a kitchen knife. Huh. Anyway, they're all buried in the same cemetery, so that makes it easier for us."

"Hm, Carver Johnson was pretty cute," she mused, peering over his shoulder. "In a dashingly handsome kind of way. Anyway, sometimes I wish we could just dig up and burn every single body. Now _that_ would makes things a lot easier," she said, bending over to dry her hair. Instead, the towel fell to the ground, forgotten, as she sneezed violently into her knees.

By the time she straightened up, Dean was looking at her with an extremely amused expression on his face.

She scowled at him as she kicked up her towel. "What, you've never seen anyone sneeze before?"

He grinned. "Not like that, from a chick, no."

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I offend your delicate sensibilities?" she crowed before focusing her attention on the state of her towel. She shook it out violently, hoping to rid it of whatever dust mites it may have picked up from the carpet, then proceeded to dry her hair.

"Yeah, you did," he stated, eyeing her with faux disgust as he closed the laptop. "Get dressed. I'm gonna grab us some food from down the street. And go dry that cast already – or else you'll have to get it redone at the hospital."

"I'm going, I'm going," she replied, staring at the slightly smudged "squirt."

He grabbed his jacket on the way out, and reminded her to lock the door behind him.

_I'm not a kid, Dean_, she wanted to whine, but she bit her lip and nodded. She wasn't a kid…until she acted like one. And hell, she certainly felt like a kid when caught up in unfortunate situations she was so adept at finding herself in.

So she locked the door.

* * *

Annabel couldn't help out with the digging, so Dean had her standing guard – with a flashlight strapped to her right hand and a shotgun loaded with salt rounds in her left – as he did all the hard labor. The shotgun was just there for comfort, seeing as how she couldn't very well take full advantage of it with just one hand. No, it was there so she could throw it to Dean if need be, and if she couldn't do that, she'd just have to wield it like a bat…or attempt to shoot it with a cast for support and a left hand for aim. Why couldn't spirits – scratch that. Why couldn't _everything_ be killed by coming in contact with silver or iron? No one ever needed two hands to use a blade.

Being the paranoid, somewhat neurotic person she was, she was either a terrible person to have stand guard or the best. Usually, she was pretty good at keeping guard, but the fact that she didn't have full usage over both her hands would most likely prove to be a disadvantage.

She stood relatively far back from the gravesite, since her current position provided her with the most expansive view, should the spirit decide to make a visit.

"Hurry up, Dean!" she called, jiggling her leg impatiently as she scanned the surroundings for the hundredth time.

"Yeah, I don't see _you_ doing any of the work here," Dean panted, throwing the shovel up to the grass.

"I can't," she said simply, waving her cast in the air. "But I would if I could, if that matters any."

"It doesn't," he grunted.

She didn't see it until she was flying through the air, so yeah, she clearly wasn't in tiptop guarding shape. And what's the point of looking everywhere when you can't even see spirits sometimes?

"Fuck," she breathed as her leg hit a tombstone on her way down. The force wasn't enough to cause anything but a bruise, but somehow cursing always seemed to make things better. That was something she learned long, long ago, and the theory hadn't yet been proved wrong.

"It's Carver Johnson! Go dig him up – I'll distract him!"

* * *

Dean cursed as he pulled himself up from the grave he'd just technically dug, already reaching into his pocket for the matchbook before he even stood upright.

The second grave didn't take quite as long to dig, probably due to the fact that he knew Annabel's powers of distraction weren't enough to keep them both in one piece. And the third? A piece of cake. Though, he knew his body would hate him in the morning.

The silence from above ground was enough to worry him.

But first thing's first, he thought, throwing the lit match down into the gasoline soaked coffin. He lingered for a few seconds, just to make sure the fire was going strong, before he grabbed his bag and attempted to discern where she'd gone.

It wasn't so easy. If only she'd dropped some bread crumbs – or, you know, if she'd managed to find a way to distract the thing within the confines of the cemetery.

"Annabel!" Dean called in a tone just a fraction short of a bellow.

Johnson and McCarthy were both roasting in their graves, so Dean had expected Annabel to return a while ago. Unless she'd gone straight to the car…God, they really needed to set up some standard operating procedures or something.

He pulled the bag over his shoulder and began the trek to the Impala, all the while checking his cell phone just in case. Although working with partners definitely had its perks, it also meant looking out for another person, and that sometimes didn't sit very well with Dean. Hell, sometimes even being responsible for keeping Sam safe irritated him.

"Damnit," he growled as he came upon his lone car. "If you were arrested for trespassing," he said in a warning tone to her entry in his cell phone, "you're getting out if it by yourself."

And as life would have it, his call went to voicemail after seven rings.

He threw the can of gasoline into the trunk and pulled open the weapons cache. If he knew Annabel and the situations she often found herself in – and he'd like to think he did – he'd need as much help as he could get. With a shake of his head and after making sure he had the usual iron, silver, shotgun and salt rounds, he reached for the holy water and stuffed it into his pocket.

Now for the hard part. How the hell was he supposed to find her?

_Okay, think_, he thought, _where did it sound like she was running to?_ God only knows. He'd heard her circling around a small section of the cemetery when he was still digging up Johnson, but after that, nothing. _If nothing else comes out of this – besides bruises and scars, maybe I'll have learned to pay more attention to every little detail_, he mused, heading for the building closest to the cemetery.

He tried calling her again just before he reached what appeared to be the building where the kids were quarantined. It was smaller than the building they had explored earlier in the day, but it was no more inviting.

"C'mon, pick up the phone," he muttered aloud, all the while staying low to prevent being spotted by pesky cops. "Some sleep would be lovely." Then, "God, how long do you think it takes me to dig up two graves?"

It probably said something about his sanity, the whole talking to his cell phone business, but he shrugged it off. Of all the things he could be carted away for…

Dean snapped his phone shut and stuffed it back into his pocket._ What's the point of having a phone if no one ever picks up? _Making sure no cops – or daredevil teens – were around, he ducked through the doorway and clicked on his flashlight.

"_An_nabel!" he called in a sing-songy whisper, slapping himself mentally upside the head the second his voice rang out.

He held his gun at the ready and pivoted as he reached the end of the hall, scanning the area for signs of movement. All he saw were toppled rusty desks, some loose paper, and dolls. He shuddered. Dolls, like little girls – boys too, sometimes – were creepy. He kicked the Little-House-on-the-Prairie doll at his feet, and it rolled into what looked to be a small auditorium. Streamers – or what was left of them – hung from the ceiling above the stage, and the steps had rotted away.

Just as he was about to step into the auditorium, his cell phone vibrated against his hip. "Where the hell are you?" he barked, panning his flashlight across the room.

"Waiting for you by the car," she replied, her tone indicating that it should have been obvious. "You should stay low though. Cops wandering around."

"I'll be there in a second. And _don't _move" he ordered.

* * *

She brought her knees to her chest and stretched the sweatshirt over them, determined to prevent unwanted critters from crawling on her. Why they didn't just find another hotel, she didn't know. But Jessup certainly didn't seem to have many options.

"Are you pissed because you had to do all the digging?" she ventured cautiously, eyeing Dean's prone form across the room.

He was bent over the desk, focusing intently on the dissembled walkman and the assortment of wires, tools, and other such gadgets spread across the surface. "What? Why – nevermind."

"No, seriously. You're annoyed, aren't you?"

"I am _not_ annoyed."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Making a new EMF meter," he replied, waving a wire cutter in the air.

"Out of a walkman?" she gawked. She scooted closer to observe the process, having never seen anyone make a homemade EMF, let alone an EMF out of an old walkman. "Where'd you get a walkman anyway?"

It was clear he'd had experience in the art of making EMF meters out of discarded walkmen, since his hands were moving with almost surgical precision.

"So where'd you go earlier?"

"When?"

"When you were distracting the spirit."

"Oh, had an encounter with a cop. Said that I was rushing for some sorority, and that they left me there as part of a hazing."

"And he bought that?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Don't they always?" she grinned. "Okay fine. I exercised some of my womanly wiles, if you must know."

He snorted. "Good thing it was nighttime."

"Hey!" she protested, throwing the closest thing she could find at his head. It was the remote, and it was probably a good thing he caught it before it connected with the back of his head, because then she'd never really hear the end of it.

How he knew something was flying towards his head, she didn't know.

"You're okay though?"

"You mean, did I break anything else? No. We were pretty much playing tag the entire time, and then he burned up. Kinda anticlimactic if you ask me," she sighed, blowing her bangs out of her eyes.

"Anticlimactic, huh?" Dean asked, turning his head to look at her. "You could go for another spin in the cemetery, if that'd help."

"Nah, I'm good. Hungry, but good." She straightened out her legs as she hopped off the bed. "You want something to eat?"

"We have food here. It's late."

"I'm sick of instant noodles," she replied. "I'll just be going down to the convenience store anyways."

"Be back in five."

"Yes, _dad_." Annabel rolled her eyes and stepped out before he could notice she'd swiped his wallet.


	8. Chapter 8

_Yeah, okay, not the best I've ever written, but I wanted to get something out before finals and everything come up, ...because the next time I'd be able to update would be in a month. In story-timeline, Sam will be popping up in about 3 months! I actually don't have anything written past this chapter, but that's my plan. And clearly, I'm not going to write about every aspect of the next few months of Dean and Annabel, so it'd probably happen sooner than later. _

_ANYWAYS, please read, critique, review, comment, make suggestions, rant about how this sucks, anything! I'm sick (and about to be bogged down with 3 20-page papers due in the same week), so...pretty please with a cherry on top? lol_

* * *

**Chapter 8**

"You _do_ know that we're not actually transfer students? It's just a cover, right?" Dean asked, eyeing the old textbooks with apparent distaste.

They had visited a local Salvation Army to pick up some extra clothes for the nearing winter, and much to his dismay, Annabel had hidden three ancient textbooks – quantum physics, Renaissance literature, and Latin. Quantum physics and Renaissance literature were the last things on any hunters' mind, clearly, and yes, Latin was useful, but all the Latin they needed to know, they already knew. Not memorized, of course, but that's why they had their own books. Plus, when were they ever going to sit down and conjugate verbs with a demon? But, she had insisted, saying the books could come in handy some day. And they were only a dollar each, so who was he to complain?

She glanced up, and in a tone that was meant for five-year-olds, replied, "Yeah, it's called playing the part. You should try and do the same." She grabbed a notebook that was lying on the bed and threw it at him. "There's your prop. Now get going."

"A prop? And you broke out the glasses? I think you're enjoying this way too much." He flipped through the notebook and threw it onto his bag. "Don't tell me you've always harbored dreams to go to college too."

"It's called playing the part," she repeated, pushing her glasses up her nose with the end of her pen. She rolled over and pulled the laptop with her. "Here's what I've got."

He peered over her shoulder to read the website she'd pulled up. "Great. Mental hospitals, haunted cemeteries, headless train conductors, apparent occult activity…which one are we here for again?"

"Patience is a virtue. And anyway, since we're here, we might as well look everything else up if they're making any trouble. But first and foremost, Ohio University. The entire campus is practically haunted."

"The entire _town_ is haunted," he muttered under his breath. "Was it a female dorm at least?"

She grinned. "Co-ed."

"Well then let's get going."

"You and your one track mind," she scoffed. "No. Two track. How could I forget about food?"

"Sadly, you know me all too well," he smirked, shaking his head as he reluctantly retrieved the notebook from atop his bag. "That probably says something about your own social life."

"Shut up. So do you remember the story at all? Or do I have to repeat it again?" she asked, organizing the textbooks so that she could zip up her backpack.

"Three freak accidents in two weeks, yeah, I got it. I have to say though, the pencils through the eyeballs? Pretty nasty stuff if you ask me."

* * *

She swiped at the cobwebs strategically placed by the doorway, and managed to step on one of the many legs of the large furry spider on the floor. "Why would anyone want to waste their money on these hideous decorations?" she growled, kicking the offensive creature to the other side of the room in one swift movement.

"Especially when they could spend the same money on some skimpy costumes," Dean grinned, shutting the door behind them as he pocketed his mini lockpicks.

"I'm fairly certain the occupants in here are guys," she said with a raised eyebrow, glancing at the giant posters of women in bikinis next to various athletic paraphernalia. "As evidenced by exhibit A."

"Great taste," he grinned. "So this is where…Patrick bit the dust," Dean mused, referring to his notebook for the victim's name. "Pencils in both eyes. Suicide...Policemen are useless. Who in their right mind would jam a blunt pencil into their eye, only to do it again to the other? That's like saying he shot himself in the head. Twice."

"Maybe the roommate did it."

"The roommate with the pencils in the dorm room."

Patrick's half of the room was already empty and scrubbed down, and the desk where the incident occurred had been replaced. There wasn't much to go on, especially since the EMF was pretty much dead silent. His roommate's half was surprisingly organized for a guy's room, with thick books stacked up high in the corner of his desk, a laptop, a light clipped onto the side of the desk, and a pencil jar filled with an assortment of highlighters and a few stray pens. His bedspread, unsurprisingly, was dark blue, matching the jacket draped over the back of his chair. Aside from the pairs of muddy shoes poking out from under the bed and the posters on the walls, not much else in the room indicated that a guy lived there.

The carpeted floors muffled the approaching footsteps, so by the time they realized someone was coming, it was too late to even reach the window. They were attempting to situate themselves into casual, we-didn't-break-in positions when the door opened.

"What are you doing in here?" the guy demanded, dropping his muddy cleats onto the floor with his bag. "The door was locked."

"I'm your new roommate," Dean said smoothly, tapping his notebook against his leg. "Just transferred in this semester, was stuck in a quad."

The soccer player ran a hand through his damp hair and studied him suspiciously. "They didn't tell me anyone was moving in."

"You know how the school works," Dean continued, "They never tell anyone anything."

"True," the soccer player shrugged. "I'm Matt."

"Dean." He patted down the corner of the bed and sat, playing out the I-live-here card for Matt's benefit.

Annabel coughed.

"Oh, and this is Annabel," he said offhandedly.

"Sorry about him. He's a little dense sometimes. I'm Annabel. We," she gestured towards Dean, "met during orientation."

Matt nodded at her before tugging off his sweatshirt to reveal a white wifebeater. "Sorry, just got out of practice. So where's all your stuff?"

"I travel light," Dean replied. "So, the guy who used to live here – what happened with him?"

Matt shrugged, but his eyes flickered towards his roommate's desk for a split second. "Killed himself. It was pretty gruesome. Thought he was playing some pre-Halloween prank on me."

"Was he depressed?"

"If he was, he hid it well. He had everything going for him – happy family, great girlfriend, co-captain of the soccer team, scholarships – I don't see why he would have wanted to kill himself," Matt offered, settling into his chair by the window. "He was all set to go to England for a study abroad program next year."

Annabel sank down on the bed and pushed her backpack towards Dean in order to make space. Twin beds were only meant for one person – sleeping _or_ sitting, apparently. "Was he sick?"

"He thought he was coming down with the flu, if that's what you mean."

Dean cocked his head, trying to figure where she was going with this line of questioning, but came up with nothing. Maybe next time he'd actually read the so-called casefiles that she prepared. Or maybe not. Sometimes she seemed to be even more of a nerd than Sam, and honestly, it scared him a little – if, of course, he was capable of being feeling that particular emotion. It also made him wonder why she quit going to school, especially since she was an avid fan of flowcharts, detailed notes, legal-sized notepads, books, and highlighters. And, her absolutely horrible eyesight and the oh-so-thick glasses? Yeah, she would definitely give Sam a run for his money.

* * *

"You left your prop in the room."

"You mean _my_ room, don't you?" Dean asked, putting his I'm-Dean-Winchester-and-I'm-charmingly-sexy grin to good use as they headed up the stairs to the other victims' rooms.

A group of sorority girls in matching pink outfits passed them on the fifth floor landing, and as expected, all gave Dean the more-than-once-over. And, of course, they all started twittering like a bunch of headless chickens.

"Hey girls," Dean winked.

"Have some standards, Dean," Annabel hissed after they passed, slugging him in the arm.

"I have plenty of standards."

"Could've fooled me," she shot back, pulling open the door that led out to the sixth floor.

Dean followed her into the hallway and shuddered. Communal living creeped him out. The idea of sharing a bathroom with the entire floor? No thanks. _Sammy, I sure hope Stanford was worth giving up private bathrooms for_. But then again, who was he to know what the bathroom situation in Palo Alto was like? It wasn't his concern, anyway. _Though_, Dean thought as he watched a few girls traipse around in their bathrobes, _I guess it's not without it's perks._

"Dean!" Annabel exclaimed in an exasperated tone. "Get your mind out of the goddamn gutter."

_Dean Winchester, you are so transparent it's bound to bite you in the ass one day_. Well, either that, or Annabel was just plain super-perceptive. For all she knew, he could have been admiring their bathrobes. Right?

"Cindy Sherman," Annabel said under her breath. "Drowned in the toilet."

A few seconds ticked by before Dean responded. "You're serious."

"Dead serious. Pun intended." She slowed her steps as they neared the communal bathroom. "Looks like it's gender neutral. God, am I glad I didn't go to college. I can just imagine what goes on in these places."

"You're such a prude."

"Better a prude than a whore," she replied, glaring at him meaningfully. "Come on, it was the third stall from the end."

They entered the rather large bathroom which was lined with toilet stalls on one side, shower stalls on the other, two rows of sinks in the middle, and drains placed haphazardly across the cement floor. The walls were a weird shade of grey-green and the shower curtains were a deep mauve…and the interior decorator deserved to be shot.

"I've got nothing, other than a 'Michelle loves Devon,'" Dean said after a few sweeps of the bathroom with the EMF. "Any luck?"

"You know, I would've thought that college students would actually know how to flush toilets. Guess I thought wrong."

* * *

They were sitting in a crowded on-campus café an hour later, researching like the pretend-college students that they were.

"I think I got it." Dean snapped his fingers with a grin and downed his second cup of coffee. "Tom Harding, died five years ago around Halloween. Prank gone haywire. Apparently he was supposed to pretend to be the head caught under the window, but long story short, he _was_ the head caught under the window. Talk about life imitating art."

"Some art. Where's he buried?"

"Cremated – my grandmother. My grandmother was cremated." Dean coughed, glancing up at the adjacent table, whose occupant was eyeing them with interest. "She died."

"Oh, I'm sorry," the girl said sympathetically. "Are you okay?"

He shrugged. "It'll take some time to get over, but I'll be fine."

Annabel rolled her eyes. An actor, Dean was not. Unless he was in a suit or some type of uniform, but he was playing himself – with a fake, cremated grandmother. She had doubts as to whether or not he actually knew his grandmother in the first place, but decided that maybe he needed some fun. But not before she kicked him in the shin and snatched the laptop.

"I didn't mean to intrude," she said, "But you're in my physics class, aren't you? Do you have any idea what we're learning right now?" she asked, leaning over her laptop.

"Uh…yes. Physics. Love Newton."

The girl laughed. "Are you interested in joining a study group? A few of us are organizing a group for the midterm."

"Sounds good," he grinned. "I'm Dean, by the way. And this is Annabel."

"Cassie. Are you in physics too?" she turned to Annabel with a smile.

She seemed nice enough, and relatively smart – minus the whole physics thing and the "aren't you in my class" line – so yes, maybe she'd be a good change from Dean's normal flings.

"No, she's not. She's a history major. Regency era, specifically."

"Isn't it a core requirement though?" Cassie asked, quirking her brow in confusion.

"What he meant was, I'm trying to prolong the inevitable," Annabel said with a quick glare at Dean. All she knew about the Regency period were tall, dark and handsome lords, waterfall cravats, Hessian boots, and their romance-novel-deserving romances…the types of stuff they don't teach in school. Not that she read Regency romances, of course…Well, it wasn't as though rundown gas stations had Tolstoy and Nietzsche sitting on the shelves.

"I know what you mean. I'm in journalism so I put this science requirement on the backburner for three years. But I have to pass to graduate, so I'm hoping this study group will help."

"Yeah, it'd suck if the rest of the group didn't know a thing about physics either."

Dean didn't miss a beat. "Lucky for you, I'm a physics whiz."

Annabel rolled her eyes and sucked on her straw. She'd figured out long ago that not only did coffee not sit well with her, but it kept her up the entire night, and seeing as how she rarely slept before three in the morning, coffee was a bad, bad thing. And even though she'd gotten closer to Dean than pretty much anyone else in her life, some things he just shouldn't have to find out. Dean, on the other hand, didn't seem to share the same inhibitions. She'd learned that the hard way.

Cassie closed her laptop and began packing up. "You coming?"

Dean looked around to make sure she was talking to him.

"To class? Physics?"

"Right. Yeah," he said quickly, snagging Annabel's notebook as he stood. "I'm coming. Don't start on the…project without me."

"Sure, Dean." Annabel arched her eyebrow and shoved his jacket at him. "Have fun."

Leave it to Dean to run off to _class_. Only for a girl. Annabel wasn't sure if it was cute, in a "Dean's going to class even though he's not even a student…just for you!" way, or if it was just a bit creepy. Maybe a little of both. Oh well.

* * *

"Hey! Um, Annabel, right?"

She looked up from the newspaper she was holding and squinted against the sunlight. "You're…Dean's roommate..."

"Matt," he offered. His hair had dried to a light brown, almost blonde shade, and Annabel had to admit, with the sunlight behind him, he looked like an angel. Or rather, if angels existed, she'd hope they looked as he did at the moment.

He took a seat next to her on the giant square slab of concrete and offered her some M&Ms. "They're peanut," he explained, waving it at her.

"Yes please," she grinned. She reached in and pulled out a blue one and popped it into her mouth, but not before making sure there wasn't something sinister about it. Like a corner of a razor blade protruding through the chocolate shell or something.

A little paranoia went a long, long way.

"All stocked up for Halloween?"

"We don't get many trick-or-treaters coming by the dorms," he said wryly, "but who can resist the sales?"

"Exactly! God, if I could get my hands on some Butterfingers…"

Matt laughed. "Hey, sorry about earlier. We had a rough practice, and I'm sure I wasn't real friendly up in the room."

"Oh, don't worry about it. You were nice enough, trust me."

He nodded to some friends as they passed in a hurry before turning back to her. "Do you have class?"

"Nope," she replied, cursing herself for not checking out class schedules, lest her cover be blown. Dean had it easy. "No classes today. What about you?"

"I've got a discussion section in half an hour, but it's optional. So no, I don't. What's your major?"

She surprised herself by wishing she could say she was pre-med or something equally respectful, because for one thing, she hated doctors and all those money-grubbing professionals, and for another…well, why the hell was she worrying about what a guy thought of her? She mentally slapped herself. Hard.

"History. What about you?"

"Aerospace engineering." He took one look at her and laughed. "I know, I'm just supposed to be a jock, right? The guys make fun of me all the time. But there's not much to do around here except play soccer and go to clubs. I can't dance to save my life, and you can only drink so much alcohol, so…"

"Oh no, I wasn't – okay," she sighed, snaking her hand in for another M&M. "I was thinking it. But wow, aerospace engineering. Sounds fun."

"It is, most of the time. So where did you transfer from?"

She replied without thinking. "New York."

"Why did you end up here?" He offered her the last two M&Ms, but she left the brown one for him.

"Good question. I'm not really sure myself. I guess I just like moving around?"

_Change the subject_, she told herself. _Before he runs away, thanks to your awkwardness._ "Um, so it must have been quite a sight, your roommate and all."

_Fuck_. There's nothing like bringing up someone's dead roommate to alleviate the awkwardness. _Good going_.

Matt didn't seem to notice. "Tell me about it. And the whole you-get-straight-As-if-your-roommate-dies thing? Lies," he joked. "All I got was counseling."

"But you're okay, right?"

He shrugged. "More or less. It's not something you forget."

"It seems like a lot of weird things have been going on here," she started. Research, while pretty interesting most of the time, could be very, very fun, especially when the one delving out the information was as cute as a particular soccer player. Killing two birds with one stone, right?

Matt shrugged off his backpack and dropped it next to his feet. "Yeah, I think a girl supposedly drowned herself in the toilet around the time Patrick…died."

"And earlier this week – Trey what's-his-name?"

"Duvall. I sure don't think he killed himself."

"Why not?"

"For one thing, how would he have strangled himself in the basketball net in the first place? You'd have to work hard to accomplish something like that. Really hard. And without a stool or a chair? He was going to the NBA after he graduated, no doubt about it." He shook his head in contemplation as he stretched his long legs. "There's something weird going on."

"The school could have a twisted serial killer on campus," Annabel suggested with a wry grin. "Or a ghost."

He dismissed her comments with a laugh. "Someone's been watching too many horror flicks."

She snorted. _Real ladylike, Annabel_. _Why don't you just start a belching contest while you're at it?_ "I hate scary movies."

"What about Halloween?"

"It's all right. I'm mostly in it for the candy."

"Well, our floor's holding a costume party tomorrow night. You should come. You know, with or without a costume. There'll be lots of candy for sure."

"Hey Matt!" a voice interrupted, rather rudely, in Annabel's opinion.

They both looked up only to see a trio of girls walking towards them. If they were wearing pink velour tracksuits with Greek letters on the backs, she might have said they were the same girls they had encountered in the stairwell. Bottle blondes, blue eyes, and fake tans, they all looked the same after a while. If this was what college was like, she was glad she missed it.

"Abby," he nodded at the one with the awful timing.

If the terse response wasn't as obvious an indicator as the girls needed, his rather impassive expression might have signaled his displeasure at the meeting, but of course, they were clueless.

"What's up?" another one piped up. "Haven't seen you in a while. Are you going to the party tomorrow night?"

"It's on my floor. I'll be there."

The conversation was going nowhere the girls wanted, so when Right Said Fred exploded in a pause, everyone turned to stare at her. When she set up the ringtone to be Dean's, she hadn't thought about much else except the fact that it was hilarious. And the fact that Dean hated it. Instead, she should have worried about others who might question her taste in ringtones.

"Sorry, it was a prank," she offered lamely as she brought the phone to her ear. "Yeah?"

"I think I've got something."

"Where are you?"

"Heading to the library."

"Okay, I'll be there in a few minutes," she said before ending the call.

* * *

"So where were you?" Dean asked as soon as she reached a close enough distance. He rose from his seat on the bench in front of the library.

"Just talking to your roommate. So what do you have?"

"My roommate? What are you – you don't like him do you?"

"Like him? I barely know him. Sorry to disappoint."

"Yeah, well, we're not staying long, so don't get too close."

"What?" She frowned at his back as she followed him in through the sliding doors. "You're insane, you know that?"

"It's perfectly good advice."

"It's utter bullshit. And even if I planned on _getting too close_, I hardly think I need your permission."

He led them straight to the news archives with such familiarity that if she'd paused to think about it, she would have wondered if he'd been there before.

"I never said you did," he said smoothly, placing his notebook on an empty desk. "And you don't. But as your older –"

"Don't even say it," Annabel warned, snatching up the notebook.

"—elder, I mean," he quickly amended, casting a wary glance her way. "As your elder, I know a lot more than you do."

"Of course you do. You're the one doing the love 'em and ditch 'em routine all over America. No one likes a hypocrite, Dean. Now what the hell is this chicken scratch?" she asked, shoving a note-filled page under his nose.

"I've been told I have excellent penmanship, thank you very much," he huffed as he effortlessly signed into the computer system.

"By whom, may I ask? Your m—imaginary friend?" Her eyes widened as the word almost slipped out. She hoped he didn't notice, and if he did, that he didn't really mind. But, rather than risk that chance, she quickly changed the subject. "How'd you sign in? You don't have a username or password."

"I'm a genius," he replied.

Maybe it was her imagination, but did his tone sound a bit flat? And sharp. Which would make it natural, in music terms…but natural it was not.


	9. Chapter 9

uh, Happy New Year! I was supposed to have the whole Ohio thing done and over with by the end of this chapter, but looks like it'll have to end next time. It's going nowhere and fast, and Dean and Annabel need to get on out and over to California. asap, lol. Anyway, here goes.

* * *

**Chapter 9.**

"So, turns out we don't have to pay for a room anymore."

Dean turned his gaze from the road ahead. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," she replied, all wide-eyed and innocent. Just like Sam's puppy-dog face. _Exactly _what he needed. "Just implemented your technique is all. I'm rooming with what's-her-name Abby something. Toilet girl's roommate."

He honestly hadn't given much thought to their living situation – he wasn't even sure if he was serious about staying in the first victim's place. True, it'd be nice to _not_ live in a motel for once, but it wasn't as if they actually paid for it themselves. Until the cops caught up with them, they were living off the fruits of rockstars and romance-novel heroines.

Anna grinned slyly and added, "Or, you know, we could switch rooms."

"Abby…Abby, hm don't remember her," Dean responded with his own smirk.

"You wouldn't," she scoffed. "Plus, you've never met her, genius."

He shrugged, gaze flitting back towards the road. "Turns out I really am a genius in physics." Well, not a genius, really, but he was most definitely the closest thing to a physics whiz in their little study group. True, he was never a big fan of educational institutions, much preferring to be out back shooting cans or on hunts with his dad, but when he was in class, he learned. There wasn't much else to do. And thankfully, he was sitting dutifully in a room with fifteen naïve kids somewhere in Illinois when they were learning about Newton.

From the few hours they'd spent "in college," he didn't seem to mind it much. But that probably had to do with…well, the gorgeous girl who apparently knew nothing about physics, despite having been in the class for the better of a semester. Beauty or brains, can't have 'em all – and really, to be honest, he wasn't looking for both.

Maybe Sam was having a great time in college. Hell, he sure would fit in, all hoodies and backpacks, floppy hair and an inexplicable love for books. But then again, Dean wouldn't be surprised if his little brother simply kept to himself. He had nothing in common with the other kids, didn't have any parents or family members come visit, no home to go to over breaks…Or maybe Sam had more in common with those kids in Stanford than he had with Dean…And what the hell did it matter anyway. Sam chose his path, and that's that.

But he couldn't worry about it now. There wasn't much he could do, being so far away from Palo Alto, but right now, before his eyes, he could tell his other sibling was letting herself be wooed by a jock.

"You know what they say about neat freaks."

She sighed. "What?"

"That they're pedophiles."

"Okay, Dean, whatever you say," she replied with a dismissive flick of her hand. "We there yet?"

"Does it look like there are any houses around here?" Dean asked, scanning the expanse ahead. "What's the rush, anyway?"

"Nothing. Just told someone I'd have dinner with him tonight," she said, dropping the volume towards the end of the sentence. She purposefully evaded his hard stare.

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn't decide on the words. He _was_ being hypocritical, but hell, it was different. Different _how_, he couldn't say. It was just different. Plus, it was just dinner. And not all men were…well, like Dean. But then again, the dude's in college. And a jock. College guys only cared about one thing – not that he knew from personal experience, obviously, but it was common knowledge. Getting laid. Yeah, to be fair, he was half-nerd half-jock, but that only made him all the more desperate in Dean's eyes.

He slammed his palm against the top of the steering wheel, startling them both. Why did he suddenly feel much older than twenty-four? And shit, if it was Sam instead of Annabel, Dean would certainly be encouraging him to go on more "dates." Fuck. This was not supposed to happen. Ever. They were supposed to work together for a while, and eventually go their separate ways. When that was going to happen, he hadn't thought about it, but it definitely _was_.

"He's really not that bad," Annabel spoke up after a moment of silence.

"I know," he relented through gritted teeth.

"Well, why don't you bring that physics girl along?" she said in attempt to pacify him. "It could be a…group dinner type thing. Plus, it's just in the dining hall, so it's not like it's a…you know, a date or anything."

Dean grunted. Truth be told, he was planning on keeping an eye on them anyway.

* * *

Elizabeth Harding's living room reminded Dean of something straight out of a home-sweet-home nightmare. Where the house lacked the white picket fence, the living room – and probably the rest of the rooms in the place – was full of what she probably thought were homey little trinkets. Someone had either spent a lot of time knitting roosters and homey sayings, or, someone had spent a lot of money on them. Either way, someone needed a life.

She returned with a tray of tea and scones, and Dean never said no to food. Never.

"So you two were friends with Tom?" she asked, settling into the sofa across from them.

Annabel nodded. "Back at school. We worked at the café together."

"I'm sorry we didn't visit earlier," Dean added, reaching for a scone. "We were…" he swallowed, "on our honeymoon when it happened. Didn't hear about it until months after."

God, their cover stories were getting more and more ridiculous by the case. If Dean Winchester were capable of anything but a distant coolness, he would have squirmed in his seat.

But he supposed it livened things up a bit.

Annabel nodded emphatically by his side. She'd done her makeup – bought last minute at CVS – to make her look much older, but even then, she only looked about twenty-three. At the oldest. They were both wearing matching five dollar rings bought from a flea market in Illinois. They weren't diamonds – or opals, for that matter – but they did the job.

Their cover was definitely odd and uncomfortable – maybe after a year or so, this particular cover would come as second nature, assuming they were still hunting together – but it seemed to sit well with Mrs. Harding. Probably fit into the whole home sweet home theme.

"I still think of him every day."

Dean glanced at Annabel for a split second and saw that she was looking at him with her "Dean, you're the social butterfly, you do the talking" expression on her face. He groaned. For someone who pretty much yapped his ear off sometimes, she sure was a hell of an introvert. Sometimes he wondered what her life was before the shit hit the fan. Maybe she hadn't always been so quiet among strangers. Maybe the ghosts did her in. He knew she enjoyed the job enough to stay on even when she clearly didn't have to, but to be hastily introduced to their world as a young teenager – without having someone else going through the same for the first time – hell, that must have been hard. Harder than hard, really. But then again, he was no psychologist.

And sure, she complained and whined – and even nagged him like _she_ was the older one– but never about their work. About evil things, injuries, motel rooms, creepy truckers, Dean's illicit – yet wildly profitable – ways, the girls Dean enjoyed, all those little things, sure, but when it came down to it, she was in one hundred percent.

For a girl, she was all right. They weren't about to hold slumber parties and paint each other's nails or do their hair just yet, but who knows.

Dean coughed. "We were wondering where he – Tom – is buried. We'd like to pay our respects."

Mrs. Harding put down her cup of tea. "He was cremated. Never wanted to be confined in a wooden box, he'd always said. We scattered his ashes in the ocean."

Fuck. They were going to be stuck in the town for longer than he had anticipated.

Annabel managed a smile. "It's what he would've wanted."

He was all set to go, but somehow, he found himself as the third wheel to a conversation about baking. It may have started from the scones, but somehow ended up with Annabel and Mrs. Harding exchanging recipes for cookies.

Cookies.

What next? Knitting patterns? If he woke up one day to find a Home Sweet Home sign in his car…that would be the day they split.

* * *

Annabel finished off her second glass of water and listened to the guys' conversation about football and cars. Apparently the roommates had much in common. Cassie had gone off to use the restroom, and Annabel didn't know much about football – or cars, for that matter, so she picked up one of the remaining slices of pizza.

Dean was probably monopolizing the conversation on purpose.

The dining hall had been packed, thanks to some football game letting out, so the four of them headed over to the local pizza joint a little further off. It was a quaint little place, in the sense that it was old and somewhat falling apart, but they served good pizza, and were pretty fast on their feet. Annabel was certain that if she were to peel off the Ohio University banners and memorabilia, they would see irreparable cracks and water stains dotting the interior.

"They're _still_ going on about that stuff?" Cassie asked with a groan as she slid back into the booth.

Annabel rolled her eyes. "Nonstop. So how did the studying go?"

Cassie grinned. "He's the best addition to our group. Managed to get all the questions right."

"He did?" Well, of course Dean couldn't have been so anti-education as he appeared, because for one thing, his brother was Stanford material – so something must have rubbed off on him as well – and second, he was a pro at all things electronic, guns, cars, and everything else deemed a man's profession. But damn, he sure played his part well.

"So what's he like?" Cassie asked casually, stealing a glance at Dean who was apparently so engrossed in the conversation about Matt's car to notice.

Annabel peered at the subject in question and replied in a low voice, "He's a good guy. Just don't let him hear you say that."

She laughed. "I figured as much." Cassie picked up a slice of Hawaiian pizza and took a big bite out of it. "I haven't had this good a pizza in a long time."

Annabel had to agree, even as the grease dripped down the side of her hand. Excess grease makes for amazing pizza…if not clogged arteries and heart attacks in the future. She, too, took an unladylike bite out of her pizza, and was grateful that the guys were so thoroughly engaged in horsepower to notice that some cheese and tomato sauce were making their way down the corner of her mouth. She quickly wiped it away, but not before Cassie let out a laugh.

"Tough to eat," Annabel offered lamely, grabbing a napkin.

"Tell me about it. I have some grease stains on my jeans," Cassie grinned.

"What," Dean started, butting into the conversation, "are you two talking about?"

"You, Dean, we were talking about you," Annabel said dryly, using the only clean corner of her napkin to wipe her hands.

"Here," Matt said as he handed her a couple of napkins from the holder. "Looks like we've been hogging them."

Thanks a lot, Dean, you sure have an impeccable sense of timing. She glared at him, but shot Matt a half-embarrassed, half-grateful smile. "Thanks."

Dean was grinning in his usual cocky way. "What about me?"

"That you're secretly a nerd."

They all laughed.

* * *

"So, I'm glad you came," Matt started as they stood in front of her alleged room.

"Yeah, me too," she replied with a small smile. "I have to warn you though, this awkwardness? May not go away for a while."

He grinned and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'm not complaining."

"Good." She fumbled in her bag for the keys she had made, and looked back up at him. "I'll see you tomorrow, right? I don't really have to wear a costume, do I?"

"Well, not technically, but it _is_ a Halloween party."

"Oh all right," she grumbled. "I'll have to see if I can come up with something on such short notice."

"Great," Matt grinned. "I'll see you tomorrow then. Goodnight, Annabel."

"'Night."

She watched as he headed for the stairs to his own room, and grinned stupidly at her door. Holy shit, Annabel, keep it together and stop acting like a middle schooler. She coughed in attempt to hold her composure, and stepped into her new room.

Her roommate was still out, but the lights were still on. Not very energy efficient, but honestly, Annabel was glad for it. Ever since that day a few years ago, when she learned that there definitely were things out there in the dark, she preferred to keep her surroundings lit. Because really, you never know. And it's always nice to have a heads up, just in case. Even if all one could do is reach for the closest weapon-like item.

The room was a typical girl's room, decorated with an abnormal amount of pink, photos, and posters. Now, if the posters were of men, Annabel wouldn't have minded one bit. But, of course, Abby was a Sex and the City junkie, and so she had plastered the walls with Sarah Jessica Parker and the gang. Mr. Big hung right next to Abby's cluttered desk.

Annabel sneered at his looming figure and wished she could whip out a knife and get him right between the eyes.

There was too much pink. And too many middle-aged women traipsing around in skimpy clothes. Hell, even the men on the show weren't eye-candy material.

She exhaled and turned to her own desk, which she had expertly set up to look like she was, in fact, a real student. A pile of the old thrifted textbooks were stacked on the shelf, notebooks, pens, and loose papers were spread strategically across the desktop, and the lamp she'd taken from the dumpsters outside was sitting on the corner. All in all, her part of the room looked more like Matt's than a girl's should.

Dean had the laptop, so there wasn't much she could do except go through the old newspapers they'd borrowed from the library…on their fake yet fully usable school IDs.

By the time she'd gone through half the newspapers, her fingers were tar black, and she was half asleep. She probably should have just skimmed the headlines, but sometimes the important stuff are in the fine print…and that could mean anywhere in the issues. The sports sections were the worst…followed closely by the editorials, because apparently, one didn't have to be even close to a passable writer to become editor.

"Hey! You're still awake!"

Annabel blinked several times in attempt to get a hold of her surroundings. Her first thought was, "Why does Dean sound like a girl?" But then she saw the pink, felt the much more comfortable mattress, and realized she was in college. She grunted in response.

That was when she smelled the vile mixture of alcohol and vomit. "You okay?"

Abby shot her a lopsided grin – one that indicated less that she had a quirky grin, but more that she was so drunk she'd lost the ability to control her facial muscles. "I'm perfect!"

Annabel rubbed her eyes and pulled the closest sheet of newspaper over her nose. _Good god, lay off the exclamation points, _please.

Abby kicked off her mud caked heels and splayed across the bed, with her feet towards the headboard and head facing Annabel's own bed. "Do you know Rob Chatlin?" She didn't let Annabel respond. "Of course you do. He's the hottest guy on this side of campus – very hard to miss. Anyway," she continued – rather sentient for an otherwise inebriated person, "he asked me to the party tomorrow! And you know what _that_ means."

Groaning, Annabel rose to her elbows to look at her over-sharing roommate. She was pretty, in a girl-from-Ohio-pretending-to-be-a-valley-girl type of way, all bottle blonde and tanned. Dean would have a field day.

Or would he? She would have been completely dense to not have seen the hastily stashed issues of Busty Asian Beauties in his bag. At first, she was surprised, then shocked, and then slightly disgusted turned full-out disgusted. She still needed to have the "don't objectify women" speech with him…

"I don't know who he is," Annabel said, folding the newspapers back into their original state.

Abby rolled over onto her elbows. "What! Girl, you're coming to the party tomorrow night, right?" At Annabel's nod, she continued, "Well, I'll introduce you. What are you going as, anyway?"

She shrugged, stacking the final papers in a pile by the foot of her bed. "Haven't thought about it."

"You can't be serious. It's like, the biggest party of the year! The RAs lay low and don't give a damn what we do – they even join the fun sometimes," Abby grinned suggestively, twirling a strand of hair that'd fallen from her ponytail. "Last year, I went as Eve, you know, as in Adam and Eve? Anyway, where are all your clothes? It's probably too late to go out and buy anything – the good stuff's probably all gone by now. But you could always just make something from what you have."

Seriously, Annabel thought, the girl was far too sober for a drunk. Her alcohol tolerance had to rival Dean's…

"I haven't had the chance to bring much over," Annabel started, glancing at her closet.

Before she knew what was happening, Abby had vaulted herself off her bed and was bounding straight for Annabel's closet. She flung it open expectantly, and uttered a sound that was akin to a shriek.

"_That_ is _it_?!" Abby asked incredulously, turning to face Annabel with an accusatory stare.

"I don't –"

"And they're _old_! How long have you had these?" Abby tugged at the Goodwill jeans.

Annabelle felt it wasn't necessary to walk on over and slug her roommate in the face in order to get her to shut up, because really, Abby would probably just screech even more.

"I don't remember."

Abby sighed as she studied the rest of the clothes. "Unless you want to go as a homeless person, this won't do. I thought _I_ had a small wardrobe. Anyway, you can borrow some of my clothes. Hey, you can wear my outfit from last year! No one will notice. We can add a few more –"

"I don't know about that," Annabelle replied warily. Prancing around in three leaves wasn't exactly…well, her style.

Her roommate wasn't deterred. "I have a few extra bedsheets around. We could make you a toga – and a wreath of leaves!" She wrinkled her nose as she studied her. "You don't look very Greek, but it'll work. You have great hair…we could do it in a braid, or just have it down…"

Annabelle tried to get in a word edgewise, but after four failures, she sat back and watched her drunken yet strangely personable roommate plan out her toga costume.

* * *

Annabelle rubbed the sleep out of her eyes as she trudged down the steps to the dining hall. Abby had kept her up till nearly four in the morning, and while that was Annabelle's usual sleep time, the incessant chatter proved to be more tiring than Antiques Roadshow could ever hope to be.

"You look terrible," Dean said in greeting. He shoved a cup of coffee towards her and pushed another tray in front of her.

The scent of a heavenly mixture of omelets, hash browns, and bacon wafted up to her nose. She stabbed the bacon with a fork and glared at him. "Not everyone can wake up looking like a princess, Dean," she replied pointedly. "You can have my coffee."

He shrugged and reclaimed the mug, ignored her comment. "Your boyfriend asked about you."

"What are you, five? He's not my boyfriend."

"Yeah, and you'd better keep it that way," Dean muttered from behind his coffee.

She sighed, but figured it was too early to start. "Did you find anything?" she asked instead.

Thankfully, Dean agreed. "We're probably still dealing with Tom. Just have to find whatever item he's latched himself onto. Other than the frat he was in, he wasn't very involved in anything, so I figured we'd look into that."

Annabel nodded. "Makes sense. So, what about _your_ girlfriend?"

"I don't do girlfriends," Dean stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Yeah, you just do girls."

Dean leaned forward, a sly twinkle in his eyes. "What was that?"

"I said," she started, "I like your curls."

He shot her a "yeah, okay" look, but tentatively ran a hand through his hair. "Right," he said, snatching a hash brown off her plate. She didn't protest, since he was the one who had gotten her the food in the first place. "Well, I'm off to Frat Row, see if I can find anything on Tom. You should keep your eyes open for another incident on campus. Have a feeling Tom'll be back soon."

* * *

From all the shit Dean thought about higher education, he sure was enjoying himself. Annabel looked around the lounge for Dean and Cassie, but apparently they'd disappeared into the crowd. Or the halls. Or rooms. She sighed and tightened the knot on her shoulder and adjusted her "Helen of Troy" outfit…as Abby had christened it.

Even though the outfit was relatively flimsy and not as secure as she would have preferred, it was still one of the more modest costumes she'd seen all day.

After Dean had left for the fraternity house in the morning, Annabel returned to the room to gather her items, only to run into Abby who had apparently just gotten out of the shower. Long story short, Annabel ended up digging through the old newspaper archives in the public library, wearing a bedsheet. Even though she and Dean had already looked through the articles, she realized they hadn't pieced everything together yet. For one thing, why did the perpetrator pick those victims? That was a biggie. What did they all have in common? She was surprised they'd overlooked that major question, but then figured it was because they were both distracted. They never had to integrate themselves into their characters' lives for so long, and most of the time, they did their best work talking it over in the motel rooms. Something about the bare walls made them both focus harder on the case in hand. Getting it done as soon as possible was an incentive. But rarely did the next motel offer a reprieve.

She sat dutifully in the underused Athens Public Library, several miles from campus – public buses, not a means of transportation she'd like to use again – and pored over every sentence. The heavily made-up librarians eyed her when she walked in, with one hand clutching her bag, and the other holding up the skirt of her outfit so it wouldn't drag on the dusty floor. A dirty Helen of Troy? Unthinkable. She still didn't understand why the librarians were staring. She was fully clothed, and she was wearing shoes. They should have been glad she didn't have anywhere to stash her knives…Or a shotgun either, for that matter. Hell the things she could do with Webster's Concise Dictionary…

But they did fetch the documents she'd requested from the basement, however slowly they completed the process. She felt their eyes on her the entire time, but at least they didn't attempt to ask any questions. Through her fidgeting and glaring, Annabel was able to come up with two hypotheses. The first was that the victims were completely random…which would also make their job all the more difficult. She hoped it was the second. All the previous victims were insanely popular, the "Big Man on Campus" types – or "Woman," in the case of Toilet-Girl. Patrick, Trey, and Cindy – co-captain of the soccer team, future NBA player, and president of Delta Delta Delta. Yeah, BMOCs, definitely.

What she didn't understand was why Harding was going after them. If, in fact, it was even him. But by then, it was getting dark, and she didn't want to miss the bus or have to call Dean to pick her up. The fewer arsenal he had on her and her supposed nerdiness, the better.

Annabel was too preoccupied with Harding's motives to see a life-sized Barbie coming at her at full speed. Her first instinct was to find something she could fashion into a weapon, but then she realized Barbie was calling her name. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Dean stiffen at the almost inhuman shriek of her name. _Oh good, Dean's here_.

"Annabel!" Barbie grinned, grabbing a hold of her arm. "I told you I was going to introduce you. This is Rob. You _have_ to know who he is." The Ken to her Barbie stepped out from behind her, and Annabel felt herself grin like an idiot. Yes, he was very, very good-looking, but his hair was styled just like Ken's, straight down to the helmet-like texture. And the tan. Damn, some people took Halloween way too seriously. Or rather, they took dressing up too seriously.

"Hi," Annabel said with a laugh. "It's nice to meet you Ke—Rob."

He acknowledged her greeting with a grin and a nod before tipping his head back to down his drink.

"Oh my gosh, who is _that_?" Abby interrupted, eyes wide open in awe.

Both Rob and Annabel turned to follow her gaze.

She didn't even fight the urge to laugh. No matter how nice Abby was, Annabel didn't think Dean would take well to the constant jabbering and excessive exclamations. Though admittedly, he'd probably be more than willing to overlook her flaws for a night.

A group of co-eds swarmed Barbie and Ken, and Annabel took that as a sign to leave. She was making her way towards the refreshments when Dean appeared at her side, stealthy as a ghost – well, if you ignore the whole cold air thing that comes with spirits.

"That your friend?"

"Roommate, actually," she replied, pouring herself a cup of what looked to be tropical punch.

And of course, they never really are what they seem.

She coughed as she swallowed the so-called punch, the liquid burning a trail of fire down her throat. Sure, spiked punches were pretty familiar, but holy damn, this one took the fucking cake. It was like pure alcohol mixed with red food coloring.

"Thanks for warning me, Dean," she managed between coughs.

"What? Oh, the punch. Yeah, didn't think you'd drink the entire thing in one gulp."

She glared at him and dropped the red cup into the trash bin. "Thanks."

He scanned the room. "All right, see ya," Dean said quickly, heading off in the opposite direction towards the makeshift dance floor. "And don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

Annabel rolled her eyes and retreated to the wall, having never been a fan of socializing. _What _wouldn't_ you do, Dean? Exactly. Not the best advice. _She wound her way through an assortment of scantily clad devils and random, equally slutty co-eds with tails and/or animal ears.

She leaned against the wall, the cold cinderblocks pressing against her back as she watched the party. It was only eleven, and things were already getting rather loud and rowdy. She hoped what Abby said was true, that no one cared what happened during the party, because if cops dropped in, she'd either have to book it, or she'd have to dig out one of her fake IDs and somehow recreate her cover story. Hm, she could be one of those child geniuses, skipping grades here and there, and that was how she ended up being an eighteen year old sophomore transfer student. But no, she wouldn't be eighteen anymore. Fuck, she thought, shaking her head in attempt to rid it of the effects of the alcohol. Fake ID, eighteen no more. Nothing to explain. Except maybe the different name. For a girl with more fake IDs than normal, she sure lacked one with her real name and fake age. Annabel wondered if Dean had thought about it. But then again, he wasn't the one reeling from the fucked up punch.

"There you are!" a voice called from her right.

Annabel cringed, hoping it wasn't Abby, because she wouldn't be able to deal with all those exclamations. But she looked up anyway, and was relieved to see not a Barbie, but a cheerleader. A very male cheerleader.

She laughed, taking in the hairy legs, short pleated skirt, midriff-baring stop, the "C" emblazoned on the top corner, the makeup, and the ribbons in his hair.

"Yeah, yeah," Matt replied sourly, though his eyes betrayed his tone, "Laugh it up. We lost a bet."

"We?" Annabel asked, still laughing. She looked past him to see several other male cheerleaders, donned in the same costume and in similar makeup, making their rounds. "Who did your makeup? God, it looks better than mine. If you're into the whole drag thing, that is."

Matt rolled his eyes playfully at the joke, and pulled at one of the ribbons.

She slapped his hand away. "Stop it, you're going to ruin your outfit."

"Speaking of outfits," Matt started, "Yours looks awesome. You wanna switch?"

"I don't think so, mister," she replied, reaching up to pat the wreath of leaves on her head. "I'm not the one who lost the bet. What was it, anyway?"

"Just a stupid game. Remind me to never gamble again, okay? Who knows what I'll have to end up doing next time. You thirsty?" he asked, edging to the side to give her some space.

She scrunched her nose. "I drank the punch. It's not that great."

He looked concerned. "You didn't have a lot, did you?"

"Just one cup, why?"

"It's been known to kick in a while after the fact. Hard," he said, glancing at the revelers congregated around the refreshments. "Next time, just stick with the beer. Hey, are you all right?"

"Yeah," she replied with a frown, "Just a headache, I think. I think I should sit down."

"Do you want to go somewhere quiet?" he asked, helping her through the masses. He quickly amended the question, "I didn't mean that in –"

Annabel grinned, "I know what you meant. And that'd be great, actually. I don't usually get headaches." Fuck, she thought, thirty minutes at my first college party, and it grounds me out faster than hours at bars. Weaksauce. Dean would have a fucking field day with this.

A couple of minutes later, after squeezing through the lounge and hallways, and after pausing to greet Matt's friends – who flipped his skirt more often than he obviously would have preferred – they made their way into his room. The closed door didn't block out all the noise, but it was much, much quieter.

"Here," he said, handing her a bottle of water. "And make yourself at home. I doubt Dean will be back anytime soon."

Oh, she thought, you know him too well. She twisted the cap and chugged.

Matt watched her wryly. "I've got an entire box of them in the corner. Help yourself."

She grinned and settled on his bed, making sure that her costume was still fully intact. She thought about taking over Dean's instead, but that would seem a little odd, what with their just being friends since orientation and all.

"Are you cold? Need a Tylenol or anything? Though that's probably not a good idea with the alcohol…"

More like three, she thought. But she shook her head. "You should go back to the party. I didn't –"

"It's fine. I really don't want to be out in public in this," he said, eyeing his outfit warily, "so you're saving me from a lot of embarrassment."

"Well," she began, looking him up and down in a way she would never have, had she been sober, "I think you make a very pretty girl."

"Yeah, thanks. But I think I'll leave the looking pretty for actual girls. Do you mind if I change?"

"But you look so pretty. Okay, fine. Go change. It _is_ kinda unnerving," she mused, "you making a prettier girl than I do."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she waved her now empty water bottle at him. "Save it for someone who'll remember it in the morning," she said, rubbing her right temple with a grimace.

He retreated behind the closet door with a laugh.

Annabel knew she should have just gone up to her own room, but knowing Abby, it probably wasn't safe. And Dean wasn't likely to return so early, so she stayed put. God knows he'd pull a hissy fit if he found her in there. Hell, with how he reacted to their non-date dinner? Dean was one hell of a contradiction. Or rather, one huge hypocrite. And if her relationship with Dean wasn't so tenuous at times, she would have called him out on it. They'd been hunting together for a while now, but it wasn't long enough for either to say they really knew the other. Still waters run deep, and there was definitely a lot about Dean she didn't know, and a lot he likely wouldn't share.

Matt reappeared in a t-shirt and jeans, though his makeup was still relatively intact. The smudges around his eyes indicated that he had tried – and failed – to rub the remnants away. He looked at her dourly, and pointed to his face. "Does this stuff ever come off?"

"Just use a cotton ball and some lotion. Comes right off," she replied with a yawn.

Nodding, he pulled out some tissues and went to work.

"Hey, so did you know a kid named Tom Harding?" she asked nonchalantly. She figured if Dean happened to pop in on them, she could argue that she was only getting the job done. Or working on it, at least. That would probably shut him up, because he clearly wasn't working on anything except Cassie.

Matt paused, having successfully removed his eye makeup. "Doesn't ring a bell. Who's he?"

"Prank gone wrong I think. Decapitated by his window."

He closed one eye thoughtfully. "I think I heard about that. Pretty grisly. Still on your ghost theory?" he asked, swiping at his mouth before throwing the tissues into the garbage. He had forgotten about the liberal application of blush on his cheeks, but Annabel didn't remind him. It made him look like he'd just gotten out of the cold, and hell, she thought it was cute. That, and his winking thinking face.

"It's better than what the papers suggest," she countered. She glanced at Dean's side of the room as Matt settled into his chair. Dean's leather jacket was slung over the back of the wooden chair, and his duffel was peeking out from under the desk. She squinted her eyes at the bag to make sure it wasn't the one that carried their on-hand weapons. It wasn't.

And since when did Dean make his bed?

"Hey," she began, studying Matt's stack of books. "You're taking Latin?"

"I'm done with it. Just barely passed."

She tucked her legs under her and reached for it. "Do you mind?"

"I wouldn't recommend it with that headache of yours, but…knock yourself out."

* * *

An hour and a half, three empty water bottles, and one trip to the bathroom later (during which she had to force herself through dozens of couples who clearly didn't give a damn about the whole 'get a room' shtick), Annabel had managed to concoct a workable motive for their little evil spirit. Granted, if not for the rubbing alcohol she'd imbibed, she would have come to her conclusion in less time. And without help. After some prodding from the male cheerleader, she relented and made up some bullshit story about a paper for some investigative journalism course. Surprisingly, he didn't question her…he just raised his brow in the "what the hell kind of course is that" way and helped her brainstorm.

Twenty minutes in, she began to think of a way to recruit him into the Winchester family business, because honestly, neither she nor Dean were capable – or even had the patience – to create such legible and fluid flow charts and outlines. She knew Dean scoffed at her note taking, but hell, she couldn't remember the last time she wrote inside the lines. And she only wrote things down because she wouldn't be able to remember them otherwise.

Yeah, Matt would be a great addition to the team. If only she didn't give a fuck about his personal life and what his parents would think. Send a kid to college, only to have him end up shooting rocksalt at creatures generally thought to be imaginary? That wouldn't go over well.

She wondered if Matt thought she was simply drunk. Drunk and insane, gabbing about ghosts and possible connections between admittedly crazy suicides. Funny thing was, she'd rather he take the drunk and insane explanation as opposed to the truth. Sure, she'd never had to tell anyone what she did – nor did she ever feel the need to – but it was always in the back of her mind. How would they take it? Probably not very well. She was practically thrown into the crossfire – well, she was cursed with an insatiable curiosity, which led to her questioning John's wounds, which then led to the crazy inevitable. Others, though? They didn't need to know anything. Ignorance _is_ bliss, no matter how condescending it sounds.

If she hadn't seen it all with her own eyes, if she wasn't so logical as to question John's cuts and bruises – because honestly, a couple of days out usually don't usually result in stitches, and if she didn't feel it was impossible to leave after knowing full well what went on out there in the world while everyone walked around with their myths and fireside ghost stories…well, then she'd be all for ignorance. But she was nothing if not for her principles.

"You'd better get an A on this…" Matt said in an "or else" tone, clearly meant for the professor of the fictional class.

"No kidding," she responded, looking over his notes. She felt slightly bad about lying to him…though it couldn't be called a lie. More like a white lie. Or an omission. Not a lie. "Can I borrow you for all my classes?"

He half-laughed, half-grinned, and nearly blushed. Then he coughed to cover it up.

He was so cute that she couldn't remember why she'd even entertained the thought about exposing him to the netherworld of the supernaturally evil. Superior note-taking skills be damned.

The somewhat comfortable lull in the conversation – Matt was scanning over the pages of notes, and she was trying hard not to stare, because that was just plain creepy – was the perfect time for Right Said Fred. Or not.

Frowning, she extracted her cell phone from behind the pillow and glanced at the time. It was too late for a check-in, and too early for Dean to get around to calling her – especially if he was out with a girl. "Sorry," she said to Matt, "I'll just be a minute."

She angled away from him. "What?"

"Where are you? Your roommate –"

"Out. Why, what's up?"

Dean exhaled. "A girl was scalped."

"Holy fuck. Where?"

"Some frat party. Apparently she got too close to a fan, and it took a part of her scalp clean off."

"Holy fuck," she repeated, automatically lifting a hand to the back of her own head. She rubbed it absently as she listened to Dean's recount. "Okay," she agreed as he finished, "I'll see you in the morning."

"What's wrong?" Matt asked, looking at her with a concerned expression.

"A girl – Melody Stafford – was scalped. By a fan," she answered. There was no use keeping it from him, because it'd be all over campus by the morning.

His eyes widened. "Melody?"

Uh oh. Annabel paused. "Did you know her?"

"She was my lab partner. Mechanical engineering," he replied. "She's…dead?"

Annabel nodded.

He was silent for a few minutes, absently tapping his pen against his notebook. "I'm starting to think your ghost theory isn't so insane."

"But it is," she blurted without thinking. "It was just an accident – a really, really horrible accident. And like you said, ghosts don't exist."

Shrugging, he clicked his pen and turned his attention back to the notebook. "Guess we should add that in?"

* * *

She met Dean across the street from the frat house the next morning. He looked tired but awake, like he'd been up for hours even though it was only seven. It was probably best she didn't know.

"I've already been in. Just like the others. No sign of entry, foul play, nothing. No sulfur. The EMF spiked a bit, but it could be the phone lines," he said, hands in his pockets to keep warm.

"Did you find anything about Tom?" she asked, watching the crowd that had gathered around the front steps. Some were still in their costumes, while others were in their pajamas, but all had looks of utter disbelief on their faces.

"Yeah. His crazy girlfriend – who was in high school – kept a lock of his hair. God knows why, but I'm guessing that's it."

From his tone, she knew that wasn't the half of it. "What?"

"Guess who the girlfriend was."

She narrowed her eyes at him, and then gasped. "No."

"Yeah," he replied, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "The girl who got scalped."


End file.
